HIGH FLIERS

Six jets, each piloted by its owner, on a 42-day 17,000-nautical-mile adventure through the Middle East and the Himalayas–it’s sure not your parents’ group trip.

- Michael Verdon

SOMEWHERE OVER SAUDI'S seemingly endless desert, we hit turbulence that makes me white-knuckle the plush leather seats of Lance Mortensen's Phenom 300.

I'm not a nervous flier, but the rough air doesn't stop. One hundred miles ago, oil wells stood as signs of civilisation; they're long gone. Outside either window now: sand as far as the eye can see. It was 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius) when we left Luxor, Egypt, and it's no doubt hotter here. Chances of survival if we go down? Probably not very high.

But it's business as usual for Lance, who is piloting, and his wife, Natasha, on the comms. He and his fellow pilots on this trip tell a story about being GPS-spoofed, most likely by the Russian military, while flying over the Black Sea last year. The avionics displayed Africa, but the planes were most definitely in Central Asia. Things could go bad here, too, my overactive imagination warns: engine flameout, pilot error.

Lance motions me forward to put on a headset. Instant comfort hearing familiar voices on the “family channel,” the frequency shared by Lance’s plane and five other private jets travelling together across Saudi airspace. The others identify themselves by call sign: The Professor gives his position, and when I look up, contrails appear as we push past his CJ3+, flying 135 knots faster. There are occasional messages from Shortcut, who's pulled ahead of everyone in his Phenom 300, while the Smugglers communicate less frequently. Big Buddha, at the controls of his Citation M2, is known for his deadpan humour and for routinely arriving last. “Thanks, everyone,” he says after the others radio that they are passing. “I appreciate you constantly reminding us that we're the slowest.”