It must have been about two years after I received my private pilot license in Switzerland. At 28 years of age, I was happily married with two healthy boys, aged 2 and 4, and a promising banking career lying ahead. The world and future looked bright, and I was going to take the opportunity to fly when I could. The reason for the next trip was to visit a refinery—situated near the Italian border—that belonged to the bank. I visited the plant regularly
to coordinate the bank’s activities with the factory and normally took the car, which made for a round trip of approximately six hours. This time—and considering the beautiful weather—I decided to take the airplane instead. With barely 150 hours in my logbook, I felt that I should invite my former flying instructor, who had a total of approximately 20,000 hours, to accompany me to south Switzerland, which required a crossing of the Alps.
