With whirling blades fast approaching, I make a quick assessment of the situation. On the pro side, I've flown with Brunner once already today: He certainly demonstrated ultimate control of the bird as he whipped us over to a macro view of the Matterhorn, Bec des Rosses, and Mont Fort. Most of the chopper pilots I've met are grizzled vets with thick thumbs and cool composures earned in 'Nam. I don't know much yet about Brunner–a 40-something with curly brown hair and furry cowboy boots—but he looks like a yahoo party boy. I chalk the stunt up as a con and get out of the way.

No need: At the last minute, Brunner pulls the chopper's nose up and drifts in as smooth as chocolate fondue, touching down on a small landing pad near the table. There's more skiing to be had, and Brunner is our lift. With the backcountry run out of the way, it's time to wallow in the pleasures of the front country—leisurely runs on wide in-bounds blues at Zermatt (about two hours east by car, it's only 20 minutes away for us whirlybird passengers), some cold lagers at a stübli, perhaps, and a fine meal of goose-liver mousse before bed.

And so begins a several-day pattern of blending off-piste adventure with slopeside European sumptuousness. Before I load into the helicopter, I wrap up a few slices of organic pork ingots, stowing them in my pocket for the flight—just because I can.