Lac de Tseuzier Switzerland

Velotouring.fun

Lac de Tseuzier, Switzerland

Ride to Barrage de Tseuzier at 1778m


A lazy morning, sitting in the sun on the balcony, writing, reading, and enjoying the views. Today, we are cycling just thirty kilometres up to a dam in the mountains above the village.


Its hot so after a healthy lunch we shower, ensuring I’ll have a cool head and neck for the first stage of the journey at least. Martin’s hair dries in about thirty seconds so we wet our neck scarves and set off with light bikes. It’s not far but it will be steep.


We are looking forward to the challenge.


We cycle through the village and turn up onto a residential road which soon slips past all habitation and into the forested slopes. It’s quiet and the air, although hot, is fresh with pine tree scent. The road narrows and climbs, hugging the rocky sides of the valley. We play dodge the sunlight, zipping from tree shadow to tree shadow and then we stop for water and turn to look back.



Wow. 

White clouds clutch the craggy mountain tops as if they are scared of being blown away into the deep blueness of the sky. Folds of land, swathed in all shades of green, compete for the title of ‘best shaped’ and ‘most awe inspiring.’ We cannot choose a winner.

 

We continue up, finding hairpin bends with more views, trickling water and corners so steep we are almost doing wheelies!  

Our legs settle into the slow uphill plod freeing our minds. We even have some energy for chatter as we point out crags, dark fissures in rocks, and I mention writing a memoir. 

Martin suggests a title - ‘From Rusty Wreck to Made to Measure’ and I’m not sure if he’s referring to the bikes I’ve ridden in my quest to become a better cyclist or my body. I’m pretty sure I’m not made to measure for mountain cycling just yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy giving it a go.

And today the fifteen kilometres uphill is enjoyable. 

There are pictures – votives- on one of the many bends and a small cave. A prayer space with lit candles and a bench. These are in memory of the of those who toiled to tame the river and preserve the lake we are cycling up to see. It is a reminder that this road was made by hand, sweat and backbreaking long days. A quick thought to those men and words of thanks and we continue up.


With sweat leaking from everywhere we cheer as a tunnel appears. Martin shouts ‘woohoo’ and I ring my bell as we slip into the cool darkness. Just for a moment. It’s not the long tunnel we were expecting.


Onwards and ever upwards, ignoring any aches from protesting leg muscles we continue to soak in as much of the nature and sights as we can.

‘There is it,’ Martin says, and I look up to see a dark arch cut into the rock. Pine trees growing on the sides and over the top. 
The tunnel. 

I am about to enter when we hear the rumble of a large vehicle. The tunnel is not wide, so we wait. A bus filling most of the lane emerges from the gloom, catching up with it’s warning rumble and passing us. We peer in. It looks empty and sounds empty.
Off we go. 

It’s cold and damp but exciting.

The road ahead doesn’t look as steep. It isn’t and my legs feel stronger again as I find a rhythm and breath to talk. There are crags and mountains on both sides of the valley and I cry with relief and awe as we cycle along the road which twists and clings to the mountain side. Silvery tracks of water pour down from the snow topped mountains like giant snail trials through the grey rocks.


Then we are in the forest. Beech, birch and pine. We are surprised to see hardwood trees at this altitude. The smell is fresh and revitalising as we stop by a waterfall. There are so many photo opportunities, so many scenes to capture so they will never be forgotten. I don’t think I will cycle this way again.


We see a sign for a tunnel and whoop with joy, and what a tunnel, it doesn’t disappoint. I ring my bell shouting ‘cyclists coming through’ and we call and laugh as we venture into the darkness. This tunnel was not made by a machine, but sheer man-power, it is rough cut but perfect, there are peep holes giving us glimpses of the valley alongside and a waterfall crashing down from above. It is cool and fun. What is it about tunnels? We love them. 



‘Cyclists coming through,’ I shout, ringing my bell and laughing when my words echo in the curved space. Martin joins in with the echo making as we peddle fast. The tunnel curves and we see the arch of light at the end and speed towards it.

I love the brightness that is impossible to see beyond. It’s like we are going to emerge into a different world. And we do. 

A bitter cold wind whips down from the mountain top and curls tight around our damp neck scarves. I shiver. We pull over and take the scarves off, putting on our waterproof coats. Thin but wonderfully wind resistant. 

Ah. Better.

We cycle around the last bend and there it is. 

A turquoise-blue lake fed by glaciers is nestled in silvery grey ice-carved rocks that reach into the blue sky with craggy fingers. Patches of green like an artist’s afterthought are dotted across the steep slopes and a waterfall slips down the rocks in the far corner feeding the ever-hungry lake.


Flags flutter on a white pole as the wind sweeps down from the glaciers hidden behind the mountain ridges.


 We sit on a chunky wooden bench to admire and soak up nature’s beauty. A quick munch of an energy bar and a sip of rapidly cooling water before we cycle across the dam to a viewpoint.


The dam is a deep slab of concrete, holding back the water with ease, allowing a controlled amount to power electricity before falling into the valley below. 

We turn and see more views of the mountains and the valley we have ridden up. Our heads trying to absorb the grandeur and think of more words than ‘Wow’ to describe the everything that we see.


 It’s not just the physical view, it’s the air, the achievement, the thrill, the awesomeness of nature.


We shiver and cycle back across the dam, say goodbye to the lake and head back towards the tunnel.


From this side it looks like a derelict entrance to a mine with a rotten wooden structure to fend off snow in the winter.

We shiver and with numb fingers enter the one-kilometre tunnel to find the warmer world on the other side.


We still whoop and holler with the enjoyment of children as we travel through the tunnel, it just has to be done.


Our brakes work hard on the bumpy, cracked surface of the road as gravity works hard to assert its power. Down and down we twist and turn until the air is once again heating our bodies and we can remove our jackets.


A bench with a view calls out as we pass, and we skid to a stop and sit, our feet demand a selfie as our eyes feast on the mountains in front of us.


We hold hands, grin, and sigh with deep contentment.


What a world. What a life. What a ride. 

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