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The July air was cool and crisp. A thin layer of high clouds perfectly scattered the morning light across the towering, jagged, snow-capped mountains as we pulled-up to the airport. For winter in the southern hemisphere, this was a good as it gets.

Our Islander sat idle on the ramp of the Queenstown Airport, the gateway to New Zealand's adventure capitol. If you've ever bungee jumped, you may know this is where it all started.

Our pilot Dave walked out of the tour company's briefing room and asked his 9 passengers, including me and my wife, to huddle around him as he explained how we'd arrange ourselves in the twin-engine, over-wing sightseeing plane. I immediately told him I wanted to sit up front. As our eyes connected, and I could tell Dave knew I was a pilot. He granted my wish.

I crawled in the right front seat, which was void of any controls, but in plain view of all of the instruments Dave would need to guide us the 35 minutes to one of the most remote airports in the world. How remote? The same drive takes more than 5 hours.

The warmth of our bodies inside the narrow cabin quickly fogged-up all of the windows as Dave started the left, then the right engine. He reached forward with a towel and wiped the condensation away as he slowly started taxiing.

In between his chatter with the tower and the three other Islanders that would follow us across the mountains, Dave took us step-by-step through our departure plan.

"Looks like we're cleared for take-off, so we'll hustle on over to the runway because a Boeing is circling up there waiting for us."

I glanced-up through the misty windscreen, and sure enough a Quantas Airlines 737-800 was starting its nimble, final, circling approach into our mountainous airport. Dave remarked that only specially-trained airline pilots get to fly into Queenstown because of its difficult approach. Little did I know, our upcoming approach would make Queenstown look easy.

I waited for Dave to stop and do a run-up, but without hesitating, he took the runway and pushed the throttles to the stops. Uh, is that not required in New Zealand?

Within seconds we were airborne, and Dave banked west towards peak after peak and ridge after ridge. We were about to traverse the Remarkables Mountain Range, which ran through the middle of the country's south island.

As we climbed, I watched Dave fiddle with the mixture knobs and radios as he explained our route towards the Tasman Sea. He mentioned how calm the air was. I was well aware that was pilot-speak for "No need to worry about bumps, or up and down drafts today."

We leveled off much lower than I anticipated, and Dave turned the plane towards a tiny pass between to knife-edged, Matterhorn peaks. The first of many.

He calmly explained the geography and history of the area as he threaded the Islander across the dip in the ridge. Our 130 knots became very apparent as the blue-green glaciers, only 300 feet below now, quickly disappeared behind us. Glad I'm not down there, I thought.

In the distance, the morning fog blanketed the gaps between the peaks. It looked like a postcard, only one with depth unimaginable even in the deepest of dreams.

After about 20 minutes of banking between peaks, Dave aimed the plane directly at a granite wall, while pointing his hand in the other direction towards our destination.

If Milford Sound isn't one of the seven wonders of the world, it should be. Surrounded by peaks rising thousands of feet above sea level, the tiny inlet of water from the Tasman sea is home to countless waterfalls, sea life, and one amazing, tiny airport.

As the granite wall came closer, Dave sharply banked the plane into the Sound, the left wingtip just a few hundred feet from chaos. We continued to descend over the water, then turned 180 degrees once reaching the mouth of the Sound, back towards the airport.

The three other Islanders came into view, trailing each other by about two miles. I still didn't see the airport.

Dave's chatter disappeared as he slowed the engines and dropped-in some flaps. There it was. Eleven o'clock. 4 miles. We're going to land on that?

We slipped and edged our way closer to the 2,600 foot strip, certainly long and wide enough for us, but tucked so deep in the Sound that a go-around would be dicey at best. Tailwind or not, this was the only way in.

500 feet above the water and two miles out, the steep cliffs seemed to climb higher into the sky. Water trickled down them, redirected only by patches of bush, as the Kiwis called it.

Dave expertly coaxed the plane towards the runway, reduced power, lowered the rest of the flaps, and pointed the nose at the numbers.

With little more than a soft thump, we were on the ground with plenty of pavement to spare.

Dave quickly turned us on to the ramp, just in time to see a trailing Islander touchdown with spacing that would make an O'Hare controller smile. Landing lights from the two others in our caravan sparkled in the distance as our engines clunked to a stop.

To Dave, it was another successful flight over some of the world's most hostile terrain.

To me, this flight redefined several things. The expertise and beauty of mountain flying. Nature's amazing offerings.

And 35 minutes I will never forget.

For more information on how to book a flight like this email the author; Chris Archer