Snow Wall Season

May 27, 2026

It was May, and winter had been a harsh one in the Alps. Snowfall had been abundant and the cold had lingered late into the season. Our tan lines were struggling to make an appearance, but among seasoned cyclists, excitement was reaching its peak: snow depths above 1800 meters were hitting record levels, and the images would be spectacular once the big alpine passes reopened.

Why? Because road cyclists have a strange obsession with snow walls. A rider pedaling between towering white banks? A bike leaning against a towering snow bank? That’s guaranteed success on social media, the promise of a viral reel, and the kind of epic story you’ll share with your friends for years. A snow wall more than two meters high can trigger strong emotions in Lycra-clad adults.

I am one of the devotees of this cult. My friend Adrian is too, although at a much higher level. For weeks, he had been sending me enthusiastic messages from his home in the Tarentaise Valley.

“This year is going to be exceptional.”

“The Petit Saint Bernard is THE place for the highest snow walls.”

“You won’t believe your eyes.”

I trusted him. Adrian knows his region like the back of his hand and we are both passionate about cycling and mountains. It’s also his job: he organizes cycling trips through Alpcycles. Still, I struggled to fully understand his excitement. I had already seen snow walls before.

For several weeks, uncertainty remained. Information about the opening of the pass was difficult to get and the weather was not improving. The cold persisted and instead of melting, fresh snow kept falling on the summits.

Heading to the Tarentaise

Toward the end of the month, we finally received confirmation that the road had been cleared and a short weather window appeared. Still slightly skeptical, I joined Adrian at his home in Bozel, and the following day we met Kelli in Aime. He is British and she is Australian, but they are locals: they have lived in the region for years and know its roads intimately.

Our starting point proved it. We began with around fifteen kilometers on a beautiful bike path climbing gently through the valley. An ideal warm-up away from the traffic that dominates the Tarentaise. Riding side by side, chatting and greeting other cyclists is definitely more pleasant than following each other in single file between trucks.

Between the green of the valley and the white of the summits

Hannibal, elephants… and the pink road

Could this unusual topography explain the long history of the pass? According to some historians, Hannibal crossed the Alps here with his elephants in 218 BC. The theory remains highly debated, but it is amusing to imagine Hannibal and his elephants moving through these landscapes. Unlike us, however, the idea of facing snow walls would probably have terrified them.

As I begin to appreciate the gentle gradients of this alpine pass, the scenery suddenly changes. Adrian leads us away from the main road toward Montvalezan on a much steeper climb. Why? He wants to show us a famous stretch of asphalt painted pink, the symbolic color of La Rosière and a remnant of the Tour de France stage finish there in 2018.

We arrive, I take a few photos with a magnificent panorama in the background… but honestly, it’s just a pink road. I came here for white. Where are these snow walls? Do they even exist, or are they as imaginary as pink elephants?

The famous pink road on the way to La Rosière

Another world

Farther up, we reach a junction. Straight ahead: Val d’Isère and the Col de l’Iseran, still closed. We turn left toward the Little St Bernard.

A little later, we arrive in La Rosière at 1850 meters above sea level. It is off-season and the resort feels strangely deserted. Then, just after the village, the road bends sharply left, a cool wind rises, and suddenly we find ourselves in another world.

Ahead lies a valley leading to the summit eight kilometers away. In the distance, we can already see the imposing statue of Saint Bernard de Menthon, who gave his name to the pass, as well as the hospice first built in the 12th century to protect travelers.

But snow begins to appear along the roadside. Finally.

The first snow walls begin to appear

At first scattered, it accumulates on the embankments as we climb, and the first snow walls appear in shaded sections. Nothing extraordinary yet. Adrian, however, seems more and more excited.

“Wait a little… this is nothing yet.”

I start to believe he might be right. Several kilometers still remain before the summit, and the excitement rises along with the height of the white walls.

Like a kid

Both reach their peak about two kilometers below the summit. Around a bend, the snow towering above the road suddenly reaches several meters high.

Now I understand.

I get off my bike and scramble awkwardly up the snow wall. At that moment, I could use one of Hannibal’s elephants. Instead, I have to rely on my helpless carbon-soled cycling shoes sliding across the snow. I sink knee-deep into it and could not care less. Like a kid…

From above, I take an absurd number of photos of Kelli and Adrian riding below between the white walls. My feet are soaked and freezing. And I’m losing it.

Now that’s a proper snow wall

I also realize why cyclists are fascinated by these places. It’s not just about spectacular images or Instagram posts. There is something strange about these roads that are still half trapped in winter, about the mix of snow, sunshine and bib shorts. Snow usually marks the limit: the point where cyclists are forced to turn around. But for a brief period, the road becomes accessible again before returning to its usual summer traffic and tourist crowds.

As a photographer, I also see how snow simplifies the landscape. It leaves almost nothing behind: a grey ribbon of asphalt, tiny cyclists between white walls and the sky. No need to play with colorful rocks and green pastures to compose an image.

A road, some cyclists and snow

We eventually continue climbing and enjoy the silence of the place. Only the whistles of marmots and greetings from other cyclists disturb the calm. For animals and humans alike, hibernation is over…

Shortly before the summit, we pass the statue of Saint Bernard and the hospice.

The hospice and the statue of Saint Bernard de Menthon

No cappuccino

Then a final snow wall appears: the one separating us from Italy. The pass itself is still officially closed. The advantage: almost no traffic. The downside: no cappuccino on the Italian side.

“The cappuccino is somewhere behind that.”

My feet are already soaked anyway, so I climb into the snow one last time to look beyond the border. There, I meet an Italian cyclist just as curious as I am, and we exchange an amused “ciao”.

We sit on the terrace of a closed restaurant at the summit. Adrian looks at me and smiles.

“So?”

You were right. The snow walls of the Petit Saint-Bernard are something else.

“Still thinking I exaggerated?”

Back to spring

All that remains is the descent back toward the valley and springtime. Soon the snow will have melted, motorcycles and camper vans will return, and the Petit Saint-Bernard will recover its summer appearance. Snow wall season will soon be over.

For Adrian, meanwhile, it will once again be time to guide passionate cyclists across the green slopes of the Alpine passes.

Alain

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