The idea of “summering in the Alps” may sound old-school, but in all honesty, it’s when the mountains come to life. Nowhere is this truer than Les Deux Alpes, a farming plateau-turned-resort at the gateway of the Écrins National Park.
I arrived there on Midsummer’s Eve, just as the resort was preparing for two major events: the delightfully-named ‘Mountain of Hell’ bike race, now in its 24th year, and France’s nationwide Fête de la Musique. Amid sweltering temperatures across lowland Europe, the village’s 1,650m altitude brought the perfect breeze, and despite my 22:00 arrival, I could comfortably wander up the resort’s single, giant promenade in a short-sleeve shirt and jeans.
I wasn’t alone: on a Friday night in June, as the streetlights and club speakers turned on, the bars and restaurants were alive with French, Italian, and English voices; tourists, saisonnaires, and school trips. Tempted as I was to join their revelry, after a long day’s travel, I needed a snack and some sleep.
I found the first at Chez nous 2, a surf shack-style tapas bar run by two sisters, who provided me with a much-needed charcuterie board and pint of blonde. Shortly after, I arrived at my rest for the next three nights: the Hôtel Les Flocons, a darling three-star chalet-style accommodation, with luxurious mattresses and mountain views. Though I spent little time on my way to bed, I was struck by all the hotel’s little details: from the hand-painted room numbers to the shelves of French fairytales in the lounge, the pine timber and calm lighting. I knew, as soon as my head hit the pillow and I kissed Friday goodnight, it would be the perfect refuge from which to explore this new resort.
Life on two wheels
As the mountain biking capital of France, my first in-resort activity was to find a pair of pedals. I was helped here by the kind folks at Brun Sports, a Skiset affiliate open seven days a week, right beside the Office De Tourisme. Brun Sports is partnered with Gravity Bike guides, one of whom, Arthur, was waiting for me outside to show me the ropes of MTB.
Cycling down Les Deux Alpes’ main strip (dodging Saturday traffic as we went), we arrived at the Vallée Blanche chair, already bustling with bikers. After wheelieing our bikes onto the chair (perhaps the strangest, and hardest part of the day), Arthur informed me that the lift was particularly busy because of the Mountain of Hell Under-14s race taking place at the top. On the way up, we spotted a few marmots and a massive griffon vulture, which Arthur, grinning behind his mouthguard, said was a “bon augure”.
Of course, he was right: mountain biking was awesome. After a few practice exercises at the top of the lift (c. 2100m), surrounded by kids as young as four zooming about as though born on their bikes, we set off down the mountain’s north ridge. While tricky at parts, Arthur picked trails just right for a beginner, allowing me to get the hang of steering just as the route got twistier entering the treeline. On stopping for a drink, he pointed out the Cascade de la Pisse (Waterfall of the Trickle) on the range opposite and jokingly told me never to plan a date there (there are about four other Cascades de la Pisse nearby).
Sadly, the mountain biking was over nearly as soon as we’d started: the better I became, the closer I got to the bottom. With more time, I’d have happily spent a whole day of it like the padded athletes we encountered at the end. I could see how, like skiing, the rush and rhythm of the trail could be quickly addictive.
Thanking Arthur back at Brun Sports, I headed to the Office De Tourisme for the next activity of the day: paragliding.
Among the heavens
My paragliding spot was located at the opposite end of Les Deux Alpes’ long stretch, in a sloped field straight out of The Sound of Music. On the way there, my guide at the Office De Tourisme, Héléna, pointed out the resort’s latest lift: the two-leg Jandri Express.
This new chair-gondola-hybrid, opened in winter 2024–25 after just nineteen months’ construction, is both an incredible piece of infrastructure and a shining testament to Les Deux Alpes’ all-welcoming ideals. That is, the lift was consciously designed to be accessible for everyone: taking not only skiers, but bikers, hikers, sightseers, the young, old, and differently abled, up to the resort’s iconic glacier at 3200m—in under 40 minutes.
Indeed, the Jandri Express encapsulates Les Deux Alpes’ opening to the world: from a local cattle field as recently as the 1950s, to an international resort welcoming roughly 70,000 visitors in its summer season (and four times that come winter). With dozens of summer activities, including some of the best trail running in the Alps and unparalleled access to Écrins National Park, there truly is something for everyone, all year round.
While it would be hard to beat that morning’s mountain biking, paragliding with 2 Alpes Parapente may have been a worthy opponent. As Red Bull stunt gliders somersaulted above us, my guide, Xavier, strapped me onto his front. In the minutes before take-off, I could feel the breeze filtering up from the Vénéon Valley, cutting through the midday heat and brushing the grass and hoverflies: the beginnings of flight.
Riding that breeze was less of a leap of faith than a steady letting-go—and before I knew it, we were floating in the sky, nearly a thousand metres above the ground. I’d struggle to describe the feeling of utter weightlessness, as everything earthly vanished below; if you’re lucky enough to try it, you’ll know what I mean when I call it sublime. Xavier, who’s done the sport since its earliest days, remained quiet and calm, occasionally pointing out the peaks he knew by heart: the Roche de la Muzelle, with its giant’s ‘eye’, and the Aiguille de Vénosc, almost like Buachaille Etive Mòr back home. From on high, the outlines of the rock were crystal clear: every ravine, nook, and cranny, dazzling in the sun, the Mediterranean Sea just beyond.
Again, like mountain biking, I could have remained in the heavens all day. A late lunch called up to us, however, and so with a somersaulting stomach and sideways landing, we returned to the weight of dry land. The difference in sensation—from gliding to grounded—was so sudden that I could have sworn we’d teleported, and now, if I could, I’d wish to teleport back up there, weightless, under the sun.
Lunch at La Troïka
After such a busy morning, I was in need of a hearty, mountain-made meal. I found this on the wooden terrace at La Troïka, only a few metres from where I’d begun biking, 2100m above sea level.
On Héléna’s recommendation, I ordered a diabolo menthe, arguably the best cure for thirst in France. I paired this with a gorgeous smoked trout poké bowl: as delicious as it was refreshing, compared to the normal Savoyard fare of cheese and potatoes. Héléna informed me that, while tartiflettes remain king, summer is in fact the best time in Les Deux Alpes for visiting gourmands, with over fifty restaurants to choose from and the best in-season ingredients.
As luck would have it, the Mountain of Hell children’s race was beginning a few hundred metres away, just as we ordered dessert (café gourmand with mignardises). Myself and a few other diners stood to watch the tots throw themselves downhill, before celebrating with a dram of yellow Chartreuse. While billed as “the lighter one” by the silent monks who make it, it nonetheless left a little fire in my throat, melting to sweetness by the time it reached the tip of my tongue.
With the start-line now vanished, we headed back down the mountain to catch the end. There we encountered dozens of exhausted competitors, and wandering among them, local legend Isabeau Courdurier: five times MTB world champion and MTV Ambassador. Héléna was glowing with pride as she informed me that Courdurier runs a weekend women’s retreat in Les Deux Alpes called “Shredding Days”: teaching women and girls to bike together, while giving advice on the interplay between mountain biking and women’s health. Alongside the all-accessible Jandri Express and resort-wide nutritious cuisine, it felt like yet another example of Les Deux Alpes providing the good life for all.
Afternoon dips and apéritif
While Spain has its siestas, I think the Alps may have a slight upper hand. What better way to top off a morning on and above the mountain and a delicious lunch at its peak, than a lakeside dip and spritz?
With the sun still baking as it headed westward, I waded into the Lac de la Buissonnière: clearly the local favourite, where seemingly all of Les Deux Alpes’ youth were swimming and playing besides. Surrounded by birch trees and rhododendrons, golden skin and sand, I concluded quite comfortably that this was la bella vie—paradise on a plate.
After cooling off in the waters, I headed back into town to Monsieur K, not far from my hotel: a combined deli, lounge bar, and restaurant, with a ‘fuzzy’, bright purple décor. The owner, Matthieu, was wandering back and forth as preparation for the Fête de la Musique that evening got underway. Wearing a floral shirt and big smile, he offered me some fresh fruit and cheerfully said, “It’s summertime in the mountains!”
From the enormous Chartreuse bottles lining the walls, my bartender produced something more elegant: a Génépi mojito, quickly followed by a basil Italicus smash. Both tasted exactly like Matthieu’s upbeat expression: summertime in the mountains, sweet; herbal, and impossibly refreshing. I would have stayed for several more and to watch the festivities begin. However, an apéritif demands a dinner, and so I left for my 20:00 reservation.
Dinner and a nightcap
Exiting Monsieur K onto Les Deux Alpes’ main promenade, I found that the Fête de la Musique had already begun. Although Héléna told me that town was always busy on a Saturday night, somehow the ambiance felt extra special: crowds of revellers amidst perfect sunset weather, with folk, rock, hip-hop, and club music pouring from every venue.
In the spirit of ‘dinner and a show’, I could watch all of this from the terrace at Le Raisin d’Ours, the Alsatian-Alpine fusion restaurant where I dined. They were sold out on a Saturday night, and I quickly found out why: the burger fumé, their speciality, was as delicious as it was theatrical, arriving in a bell jar filled with woodsmoke. Paired with a glass of delicate red, it felt like the foodie’s equivalent of sitting by the campfire after a long day’s hike.
As night descended and the discotheques opened, I felt the strong urge to dance. However, as I had an early start the next day, I decided to call it a night with a digestif at Chez Boris: a vibrant reggae and surf-rock bar, coated from ceiling to floor in retro Americana. While those around me sipped pre-drinks, I nursed a whisky nightcap and watched the titular Boris boogie behind the bar. I later found out that he was yet another local celebrity: his father owning Les Deux Alpes’ first nightclub, La Casa, and himself the disco beside my hotel, L’Avalanche. Nowadays, he prefers the quieter life at his own Chez Boris, pouring shots of Génépi for saisonnaires, while having a mini-disco to himself.
Now comfortably fed and watered, there was nothing left but to get a good night’s sleep, before my second day on the mountain.
Riding the Mountain of Hell
Having tried land and air, my second day in Les Deux Alpes was to be spent exploring the entire water cycle: from the glacier at the resort’s summit, to the white water rapids of the Vénéon, the sea a mere mountain range away.
Owing to its glacier (the second-largest skiable glacier in Europe), Les Deux Alpes has become world-renowned for its summer skiing—the best time to hit the high-altitude slopes being in May. Snowsports athletes from around the globe use it as a year-round training ground—including the French national team—now more accessible than ever thanks to the Jandri Express.
It was a wholly bizarre feeling, wandering out of Gravier Sports in late June with a pair of Rossignols, the slopes green as a golf course as far as the eye could see. Nonetheless, once I was over the foothill’s brow and boarding the Jandri’s second leg, a vast, volcanic landscape opened below me, pockmarked with snow-making reservoirs—at the top of which, sure enough, was pure white snow. To the right of my cabin, I could see the skeleton of the old cable car, constructed in 1985: a fossil that will soon be no more, as Les Deux Alpes strides boldly ahead.
Accompanying me to the top was Philippe, a cheery local ski guide and former Alpine competitor, who raced before freestyle was even a discipline. He told me that, “When winter finishes, Les Deux Alpes does not”, as up until June 1st, one can ski over a kilometre down from the glacier to La Tour, and in winter, a further kilometre to resort level. Remarkably, the entire descent is a blue, making Les Deux Alpes an unparalleled location for intermediates. Furthermore, and unlike most other resorts in the Alps, Les Deux Alpes’ glacier has seen minimal melting due to climate change, thanks to the resort’s innovative use of snow traps over the past 40 years.
Accordingly, the Pomas and T-bars that climb the glacier’s sides were already busy by the time we ascended the Jandri at 8:45. However, that was nothing compared to the crowds gathered around the wooden terrace of the top-station’s restaurant, Le 3200, to watch the start of the Mountain of Hell. To my amazement, I saw what looked like an enormous bike dealership laid out on the piste below: over a thousand MTB racers, ready to depart, while doing a last-minute warm-up to the sounds of French boom-bap and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
In retrospect, the organisers couldn’t have picked a better day for the race. The sun had risen in clear skies like the flag of Palau; the mountainscape around us a mirage of blue as steam rose from the snow, Grenoble a mere stone’s throw beyond the brow of Le Grand Galbert. To the north, I spotted neighbouring Alpe d’Huez, where I’d skied years before, and tucked under a sunhat of clouds, Mont Blanc herself.
Donning a pair of aviators, Philippe and I moved to find space at the edge of the restaurant’s terrace, now little more than a viewing platform. This was difficult as, like the athletes on the snow, fans had readied well in advance for their sport of spectatorship. Nervous excitement filled the air, not helped by a thirty-minute delay due to concerns over the course’s iciness. Nonetheless, the bikers showed no fear, killing time by penguin sliding down the slopes. While waiting, I struck up a conversation with a spectator named Jan, who had driven all the way from Stuttgart to watch his brother compete. He told me that, in previous years, the top racers have set off at speeds of 100kmph on the snow—and that crashes were common.
With minutes to go, the crowd began to chant, the event’s MC leading the bikers in a Viking clap that echoed around the glacial bowl. Suddenly, over the brow of the hill, a TV helicopter appeared, flying only a few dozen metres above us as it circled the scene; moments later, the sirens sounded, and the horde descended. Ahead of the phalanx were a few lone leaders—this year’s favourites—and like starlings in slow motion, the racers gradually disappeared over the brink, leaving snow for solid ground. I only saw three crashes, none of which looked lethal, but left me thinking how tiring it is to collect one’s runaway skis, let alone a mountain bike.
Almost as soon as the racers were gone, the crowd dispersed, and two more races began: the attendants to deconstruct the start line, and myself and Philippe, racing to make a few runs before the summer sun melted the snow. Already, the base of the slopes was slushed up, and given the glacier has only four runs, all of which were blues, I was pleasantly reminded of skiing back home in Scotland, albeit 2,000m higher up.
The view was even better from the top of the final T-bar, the full breadth of the Écrins Park now close enough to touch. Now at 3,600m, Les Deux Alpes’ highest point, I could feel the altitude in my heart and lungs, especially as we hit a horizontal stretch at the base of the first blue. While the skiing was little compared to the resort in winter, I can’t lie that I enjoyed the novelty of it: the juxtaposition of our little patch of piste against the green landscape, bare and baking below, and the feeling of my thin waterproofs flapping in the lukewarm breeze. Nonetheless, for professionals and the snow-obsessed, it’s ideal. Indeed, most of the people skiing around us that morning were competitive slalom racers; there was even a multi-tier snowpark, bustling with boarders as they trained for the World Cup months in advance.
By 11:30, after several gentle blues, the snow was exhausted, and so we headed back to the Jandri, bemusing newly arrived sightseers in t-shirts and denim shorts. On our descent to the resort base, we spotted the tracks of the Mountain of Hell racers carved into the mountains’ scree, the imprints of adrenaline carved into the very rock. A member of staff at the Office De Tourisme informed us that the winner of the men’s race, Damien Oton, finished the 25km race in just under 24 minutes, describing the glacier portion as “very, very cool” (no pun intended). The women’s race, meanwhile, was dominated by France, with former winner Emilie Serre taking the lead.
An idyllic midday meal in Vénosc
As a mountain plateau, Les Deux Alpes is flanked by two river valleys: the Romanche to its north (leading to Alpe d’Huez, and eventually Grenoble), and the Vénéon to its south, in which sits the tiny, ancient village of Vénosc.
Where several of Les Deux Alpes modern buildings have been renovated to resemble chalets, Vénosc is the real deal, its impossibly romantic, winding cobbled streets surrounded by drystone farmhouses and dense fauna. A short gondola ride connects it to the main resort 600m above, and the difference between the two is astonishing. If you have a spare day of sunshine, I can’t recommend enough visiting Vénosc’s artisanal boutiques and eateries, devoid of the usual tourist tat. Compared to the parties of the night before, the hamlet felt completely isolated from the world, nestled in a blanket of pine and icy streams.
Having wandered in reverence for a short while, I found lunch at Douces Gourmandises, where the chef (a former winner of France’s coveted MOF) was grilling lake fish on a wood fire. My meal of sea bream, salad, and salsas was mouthwatering, but the real showstopper was dessert: a pistachio fondant cake that would singlehandedly drive me back to the Alps, served with homemade violet ice cream. With food that good, I was loathe to leave, but eventually, the roar of the river tempted me to its banks.
All aboard the Vénéon
As the afternoon heat reached its peak, I retreated to the shade at the bottom of the Vénosc Gondola, flicking through the book box I found there. Eventually, my guides for white water rafting appeared in their van: two young but seasoned watermen, representing Intégral Rafting.
In the van, my hosts explained to me that, while previously, Intégral Rafting’s chief rafting route began opposite the gondola, a mudslide last year meant a new basecamp downstream. Soon enough, we pulled up in the wooded bank alongside the churning Vénéon, at this time of year fat and cyan with snowmelt. I realised that it was almost the same colour of the glacier under the snow that morning, and indeed, the skies above; my guides explained that this was partly due to its high quartz content, which reflected the light as perfectly as a mirror.
After peeling on a wetsuit, it was a welcome shock to step into the river and board my craft alongside Max, one of the guides with an attitude like the water itself: at times teasing, at others, switching to clear instruction, yet always with the ebb and flow of the river. He led me down what might have been Yosemite or the Himalayan Kush: a broad valley flanked by impossibly tall mountains and pine, waterfall after waterfall, with nothing but the sounds of the river and birds, and once more, that feeling of weightlessness from yesterday’s paragliding.
Unlike paragliding, however, the feeling wasn’t constant. Owing to his sense of humour, Max gave our raft a few brash bumps on the riverbank, and steered towards rapids that tugged and chucked us better than any rollercoaster. At one point too, we went ashore just to jump in the river and float for a bit downstream, the cold like a full-body breath mint.
Approaching the end of our voyage, Max pointed to the spot where the Vénéon and Romanche meet, their different currents mixing dark and light. Nodding back upstream, he said that the river is forever changing, with ten different routes in one season alone. Hence, while he’s made more than 3000 journeys down the Vénéon, to him, it never gets old: his office, nature’s waterslide.
At just €30 per person, and suitable for children eight and above, I would argue that white water rafting with Intégral is one of Les Deux Alpes best value-for-money, and by far the most bracing activity on my trip, among guides who live for the water.
A final tipple and supper
Drunk on the warm flush that comes from a cold-water dip, on my return to Les Deux Alpes I celebrated my adventures with a Bergamot spritz on the terrace of Ginette, a chic cocktail bar in the centre of the main strip. Around me, groups of young Frenchmen lounged under jute canopies and hanging lights, laughing in the golden hour and listening to the gentle house music playing from the bar’s speakers. The bar’s owner, Jimmy, briefly stopped by in a beanie and shorts, but at that point I was too relaxed to hold a conversation—my citrus drink washing over me like an internal spa.
Thankfully for my lethargy, dinner was not far away. Finishing my apéritif, I headed to the Chamois Lounge, a hotel-restaurant from which the scent of garlic butter flooded onto the street. Built in a traditional style, but with contemporary highlights, the Chamois Lounge has the same head chef as La Troïka and an equally creative menu. My tuna tataki was exquisite: an entirely new textural sensation, perfectly paired with a glass of Savoy wine and fresh salad, and followed by a Speculoos parfait comparable only to Christmas itself.
As one final salute to an excellent weekend, and to see me off early the following morning, I finished the meal with a green Chartreuse: a dram of dragon’s fire, to join the earth, air, and water of the last two days. Satisfied, I headed back to my hotel for a good night’s rest.
Boarding the bus to Grenoble at dawn, I rested my head on the window and watched sunrise wake the resort, wishing I had another week to spare, and reflecting on the past three days. In the end, I could only think of one word to describe Les Deux Alpes in summer: magnifique.
All images ©Les 2 Alpes / Pyrène Duffau
LAXX – Style. Skiing. Simplicity
