The rolling foothills of the Alps quickly recede beneath me, and the palm-sweating terror I felt just moments ago is replaced with goggle-eyed awe. As the silent pilot strapped in behind me maneuvers us towards an updraft, following a pair of circling hawks, the only sound I hear is the wind rushing in my ears.

At 7,500 feet above the chilly blue-green waters of Lake Thun, the quaint Alpine chalets below resemble Monopoly houses on a field of velvet, and my feet dangle above--ABOVE!--snowcapped peaks. Glancing down, I feel as if I’m orbiting the earth in a swing.

Just as I’m beginning to feel at home in my airborne perch, strapped atop the lap of a blue-eyed enigma who holds my life in his hands, he motions to the right. There, fifty yards away, another paraglider has swooped alongside--and he is SHOOTING at us.

Instead of panicking, my pilot turns to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Do you like rollercoasters?” he asks with a wicked grin, and suddenly, we’re swaying erratically through the sky before he takes us into a spin over the holiday resort town of Interlaken, its red-tiled roofs twirling like a kaleidoscope and growing closer by the second.

Then, as suddenly as our descent began, it stops. We seem to hover in mid-air until, perfectly positioned over a grassy commons in the center of town, we glide to a running stop. My knees are still shaking when my pilot nonchalantly invites me to join him for a drink.

It could be the opening scene from a “007” film--almost. Because, in reality, the guy “shooting” at us was no knuckle-cracking villain, but another paraglider shooting photos to immortalize our high-flying adventure. And my pilot’s name isn’t James Bond. It’s Richi Dean. We do join a few other congenial pilots at an outdoor café for a drink, but I order a beer instead of a martini, which I’ve always detested--except for the olive.

Here in the Berner Oberland, arguably Switzerland’s most ruggedly beautiful region, it’s hard to avoid a 007 frame of mind. That’s because “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” the only Bond film starring George Lazenby as the iconic super-spy, immortalized these jagged white peaks and charming Alpine villages, and this is the 37th anniversary of its release.

Eager to walk in the wake of 007’s stealthy wingtips, I find a worthy headquarters at the Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel and Spa in Interlaken, located across from the park where I made my dramatic airborne entrance (though not with my luggage). This five star luxury hotel, distinguished by its wisteria-draped terrace, wrought iron balconies and a gleaming dome, is a 19th-century grande dame that has preserved the gilded glory of the Belle Époque.

It’s easy to imagine your favorite Bond, decked out in a white tuxedo jacket, gliding down the broad marble steps into the hotel’s Jungfrau Brasserie, where carved columns support a painted coffered ceiling; flicking ash from his un-P.C. cigarette in the Intermezzo Bar, with its closet-sized humidor and selection of blended whiskies and single malts; or sweeping a girl off her feet beneath the candle-lit crystal chandeliers at the annual winter ball in the ornate 19th century La Salle de Versailles ballroom. (Sigh).

In the morning, though, Bond might wake to an unfamiliar sight--a Virgin. But, even for Bond, it’s practically unavoidable, as most of the hotel’s 212 individually decorated rooms boast spectacular views of the Jungfrau, an 11,333-foot-jagged peak whose name means “The Virgin,” due to its perpetually snow-capped (read: frigid) appearance.

But the mountain that intrigues 007 aficionados is the Schilthorn, a half-hour drive from Interlaken through the verdant Lauterbrunnen Valley, where the most action-packed scenes of “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” were filmed. Atop this 9,742-foot peak, accessed by the longest aerial cableway in the Alps, the villainous Count Blofeld (the inspiration for “Austin Powers’” chrome-domed Dr. Evil) based his headquarters in a round revolving aerie which today serves as a restaurant, the Piz Gloria.

Feasting on a “James Bond Breakfast” (Swiss cheese, scrambled eggs, coffee or tea and champagne--breakfast of international super-spies), I notice that the Piz Gloria still features the same bleached blonde wood and groovy gold grillwork from the film. Outside the plate-glass windows, however, the panoramic view of icy peaks constantly changes as solar panels slowly swivel us clockwise.

Downstairs, a gift shop offers everything from cow bells to 007 embroidered T-shirts and hats, and a small movie theater features key scenes of Lazenby as Bond, Telly Savalas as Count Bloefield, and Diana Rigg as the strong-willed “Bond girl.” I wonder briefly if the sign I saw outside on a snowy precipice--the one with a red circle around a high-heeled shoe indicating an inappropriate choice of footwear--was put there to deter Bond girl wannabe’s eager to follow in Rigg’s sexy stilettos.

In any event, I wisely eschew the Jimmy Choos in favor of rubber-soled boots for a hike through the mountain village of Beatenberg with Markus Metzger. Leading me along a winding path that threads past stands of pines and fields abloom with wildflowers, the lanky, gray-bearded druggist reveals a secret use for just about every plant in the Alps.

“I think all plants have a reason to be on the earth and help us bring our health back,” maintains Metzger. “There are no weeds,” he insists, deftly sidestepping a cow patty.

Got a cough? Small pink daisies with yellow centers should help, he says. Want to clean your kidneys? Metzger suggests cow lips (the plant, that is--not a bovine pucker). Suffering from menstrual cramps? Woman’s mantle can alleviate the pain--which is nice to know, except I wonder how this information might help 007, unless he’s trying to keep a PMS’ing Bond babe off his back.

“Ah,” my woodsman says with a knowing smile. “Vegetable Viagra.” Metzger assures me he has one such plant--Horse Tail, sporting suspiciously perky shafts--growing just outside his shop in Beatenberg.

But before heading back to the village--with its classic slope-roofed chalets and blooming window boxes populated by tiny ceramic gnomes--Metzger has a surprise. Pausing for a picnic, he ducks into the woods and returns with a bottle of champagne and fluted glasses. It’s an elegant touch worthy of Bond himself--though Metzger blends the bubbly with Drachensirip (the druggist’s own non-alcoholic syrup) and a couple of freshly picked daisies to create a uniquely Alpine cocktail.

My mission--to bond with Bond--is nearly complete. There is just one last thing I have to do.

At the Victoria-Jungfrau, a new $13 million ESPA trimmed in contemporary steel and translucent glass provides the perfect, neo-contemporary setting for my four-part “007 Treatment.” First up is a soak in a dimly lit room featuring a “crystal bath,” where red, blue, yellow and green lights encircle the tub, pulsing in time with soothing music--ostensibly to relax me, though in Blofeld’s hands, I fear it could be used to hypnotize an unwitting team of assassins.

Before I can investigate, my pretty, pouty-lipped therapist enters to escort me into another room for my “age defyer” facial. “So this is how 007 retains his eternal youth and good looks--aside from the facelifts, toupees and his harem of Hollywood makeup artists,” I think to myself, counting at least a dozen products applied to my face and scalp before blissfully dozing off to sleep.

After a muscle wrap, where I marinate in marine algae to rehydrate and rid my body of toxins (like the champagne cocktails I’ve been throwing back with Bond-like abandon), I finish with a deep tissue massage that nearly finishes me. My masseuse begins with what feels like a Vulcan death-grip on my neck, then inscribes the arc of my shoulder blade with a hot stone while pinning my arm behind my back. “Just tell me if it’s too much pressure,” she gently advises, as I begin to wonder if this is how Bond is supposed to relax after a mission--or if this is how his enemies interrogate him. But Bond would never wimp out--and I refuse to cry uncle, until, feeling me flinch, the therapist asks, “Does that tickle?” “Uh, not exactly,” I gasp. “Just a little too firm.”

Okay, so I’m no Bond. But over the past few days, I have faced my fear of heights. I’ve supped on the set of a 007 film. And--my greatest accomplishment of all--I’ve even learned to like martinis. Shaken, of course. Not stirred.

IF YOU GO:

Where to stay: Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel & Spa, Interlaken, +41 (0)33 828 28 28, www.victoria-jungfrau.ch.

Activities: Twin paragliding, +41 (0)79 622 51 00, www.twinparagliding.com. Flight time varies.

Visit the Schilthorn, +41 (0)33 826 00 07, www.schilthorn.ch.

Hike with Markus Metzger in Beatenberg, +41 (0)33 841 12 30, www.naturpur.ch.

More information: Interlaken Tourism, +41 (0)33 826 53 00, www.interlakentourism.ch.Switzerland Tourism, 1-877-794-8037, www.myswitzerland.com