"We'll just cut through the Gotthard Pass, there, and head down to Locarno on the other side," Theddy says.
I look ahead. All I see is a flat, towering wall of mountain, every bit as steep and high as the dramatic, jagged slopes edging the narrow valley we're navigating our way through at the moment.
"That's a pass?" I ask skeptically.
Theddy smiles and nods. "Wait until we get a little closer," he says. "You'll see."
I hunch up a little closer to the windscreen, banking gingerly between steep rock cliffs that flash past our wingtips close enough to get my full attention as I wait for the mountains to magically part and show me a way through. The turbulence gets a little stronger as we get closer to the pass, and I decide that, as much as I love my Cheetah, I'm glad it's sitting at home. This valley, deep in the heart of the Swiss Alps, is a stunningly beautiful place to fly. But it's not for the faint of heart or horsepower.
Fortunately, I'm not in the Cheetah. I'm in a Pilatus PC-12. And as I powerfully zoom and bank through the deep valleys and massive, snowcapped peaks that dominate the landscape here, I'm beginning to see the airplane-and Pilatus-in a whole new light.
I've always liked the PC-12. It was a little heavy, perhaps, but it had landing gear that could make any pilot look good, speed, and enough cargo room for two motorcycles, surfboards and several large friends equipped for a week in the woods. But the only time I'd flown one had been on a straight-and-level IFR cross-country. So I walked away thinking it was just a nice executive turboprop with a big cabin. But here, in Pilatus' back yard, I feel as if I've suddenly run into a business executive away from the office and discovered he's actually a world-class mountain climber with abilities, fire and passion that I never would have imagined he could possess.
How, exactly, I came to find myself in the Swiss Alps is a whole different story. But since I found myself in central Switzerland with a little extra time on my hands, I decided to pay a visit to the Pilatus aircraft factory, which is located in the shadow of Mount Pilatus, just a few miles outside of the scenic town of Lucerne. After all, I've always said that to really understand someone-or some thing-you have to see where they come from. For we're all products of the environment that created and shaped us, no matter how far we eventually roam.
Pilatus, which was founded in 1939, was the first-and remains the only-Swiss aircraft manufacturer. Since then, it's developed and built two main types of aircraft. The company has a reputation for building excellent military trainers, from its first stubby "Pelican" design and its piston-powered P-3 to the turbine-powered PC-7, PC-9, and its newest PC-21. Pilatus' civilian line-which still includes the PC-6 "Porter" tailwheel bush plane as well as the PC-12-has focused on aircraft that operate well in rugged and mountainous terrain.
I knew all that before, of course. But after spending a little time in Switzerland, everything about Pilatus-from the factory's location, to the nature of its two product lines and the design of its aircraft-makes much more sense. For they're all reflections of the unique needs and character of this small, mountainous, and stubbornly neutral country.
In the United States, most companies tend to specialize in either civilian or military aircraft. But since Pilatus is Switzerland's only aircraft manufacturer, it's not surprising that it's always produced both military and civilian planes. The mix is also a reflection of a culture where defense is never far from anyone's mind. Some of that has relaxed since the end of the Cold War. But until a few years ago, every male citizen in Switzerland had to serve in the Army, roads and bridges through the mountain passes here were rigged with explosives that could be quickly detonated to close the country to attacking armies, and the existence and location of many of the military airfields in the mountains weren't even acknowledged on Swiss aeronautical charts.
The same defensive mindset led to the placement of the Pilatus factory. The company was formed just as World War II was beginning. So the factory was built here in Lucerne-the furthest point from any of the borders-and positioned right up against a mountain ridge. Original plans actually called for a good bit of the factory to be built inside the mountain ridge, but the cost was apparently judged higher than the added safety was worth. Some of the aircraft the company produced, on the other hand, really were stored in secret hangars carved out of the mountains-some reportedly large enough to house a whole squadron of Mirage fighters. In fact, the Swiss mountains contain so many secret caves, hideaways and storage places that I've heard them described as similar to the country's famous cheese-full of holes.
The mountains have always been Switzerland's trump card-its greatest defense against attacks both on the ground and in the air. That and the fact that the Swiss hold the account passwords to an awful lot of countries' money, of course. But the Alps are, indeed, formidable, with narrow, winding valleys, treacherous wind currents, steeply climbing high terrain, and weather that changes often, quickly, and with the same kind of power that the mountains themselves exude. Runways and landing sites, where they exist, are short and challenging, with approaches that are steep and sometimes only possible in one direction.
In short, the Alps are an awfully thorny briar patch to try to navigate by air. But that's where the PC-12 comes in. Because the PC-12 was born in this briar patch. And it plays here as easily and happily as ol' Br'er Rabbit himself.
