Where Eagles Dare
(continued) 
Welcome to the Megève Aero Club and the pinnacle of mountain flying in France. Megève is a charming Alpine town that was put on the map by the Baroness de Rothschild in 1916, when she decided to build a world-class ski resort there. The Mont D'Arbois Palace Hotel she had built in 1921 still stands, although I stayed at the Chalet St. Georges, which has the same sumptuously comfortable Alpine décor and to-die-for French cuisine but is in the center of town. A better holiday ski destination, in fact, would be hard to find.
I'm not sure exactly how and why this particular village became the center of Alpine aviation. But in 1967, the town opened the Megève mountain "Altiport" just beneath the Les Aiguilles Croches mountain ridge, which looms only one mile and 3,400 feet above the 4,800-foot-high airport, making Megève's 600-meter runway a "one-way-in, one-way-out" strip. I'm told that Megève was the very first mountain airport in France, and it's become the center of mountain flying training in the country.
There are two mountain flying certifications in France (wheels and skis), and at least one is required in order to rent an airplane out of the aero clubs that are the mainstay of general aviation in the country. Each certificate takes about 12 hours of instruction. The airplane of choice for this training -- and flying -- is Jodel D140 Mousquetaire II -- a four-seat, low-wing airplane that was reportedly designed specifically for mountain flying in the late 1950s. In fact, the 50th anniversary of the airplane's first flight (July 4, 1958) was three days after my flight out of Megève.
The Mousquetaire (as in the three famous French rogue heroes, not the Disney club with Annette Funicello) is powered by a Lycoming O-360, 180 hp engine and is notable not only for its distinctive cranked wing, responsiveness and stability, but also for being able to carry almost its own weight in useful load. Jacques Brun said he preferred it to even a Cessna 185 for Alpine flying. And for my part, I found the Mousquetaire extremely easy to fly, with harmonized controls, steady response, and a reassuring ability to leap off the ground, even at altitude.
But the best part of flying out of Megève isn't the airplane you get to fly. It's where that airplane takes you. I asked Jacques if he ever got tired of flying around this little section of the French Alps. Twenty-three-thousand hours is a long time to do anything, after all. He just smiled and shook his head.
"No," he said, in a way that conveyed that if more explanation were necessary, I would never understand.
A couple of days earlier, I'd sat in a Chamonix café looking up at Mont Blanc's imposing peak and pondered why people were so driven to take on the daunting challenge and guaranteed discomfort of climbing it. And among the many complex reasons of personal challenge, learning, sensual life experience, a drive for achievement and exhilaration, the conquering of fear and the pushing of limits, it occurred to me that part of the answer was undoubtedly just to see the view from the top. And that desire, at least, I have the ability to fulfill without crampons, ice axe, and all that goes with that.
The Dassault team members who made it to the summit of Mont Blanc came down exhilarated with their accomplishment, as they well should have been. But when they gushed, "We could see all the way into Switzerland and Italy from the peak!" I couldn't help but think, "Wow. That's terrific. But ... I don't need to climb a mountain to be able to do that." Which made me realize, once again, how very lucky a person I am to have flying in my life.
 Of course, having now spent some time amidst the icy heights of the Mont Blanc range, I have to say that the view from the slopes really is different than anything a person can experience by air. And all the other reasons for taking on that kind of challenge still stand. On the other hand, as Jacques and I banked around peaks, coasted up and down one glacier after another, and sailed effortlessly over ridgelines that I'd so recently struggled to ascend, I decided there was also something to be said for the aerial view, and not just because it's a whole lot more comfortable.
It's because the view from the air gives a kind of perspective that even the summit of Mont Blanc can't provide. Not to mention an ability to take in far more along the way than when you're forced to concentrate solely on your next toe-hold in the ice. Except, of course, on those rare occasions when your flying ends up leaving you smack dab in the middle of a glacier, where your next toe-hold in the ice suddenly becomes very relevant, indeed.
But maybe that just means that my time in Megève gave me the ultimate Alpine experience. I flew up to the summits, and then got to spend some time immersed in the beauty and challenge of the world there before being whisked away again, back down to a gourmet Alpine picnic luncheon with good Rothschild wine. I thought back to Jacques' comment. Maybe, after 23,000 hours or so, I'd get tired of that kind of day and life. But then again ... maybe I wouldn't.
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