Lessons from Lake Angelus

Staying at the Angelus Hut is a privilege, getting there – particularly without the right equipment – is a challenge, as Nelson journalist Charles Anderson found out.

Charles Anderson

Finally, my boot slipped. It lost its grip after what felt like an hour of leaning on the edge of the sole. That boot, and me, had been trying desperately to dig into the ice, to keep some semblance of stability high above the valley. But then, the gradient was too much. The boot went from underneath me, and I went with it. I swung my body over to face the mountain, gripping the ice axe in two hands, pulling it to my sternum, and dug it into the slope. Then, I started sliding. The “most straightforward” way to Angelus Hut, the tramping notes said, was via Robert Ridge. I informed a work colleague earlier in the week of my plans to make the journey to Angelus Hut. She raised her eyebrows. The finer print of the tramping notes warned of the exposed nature of the trail, traversing nearly 10km of open tops - “with no easy escape routes”.

“Though it is relatively straightforward in good conditions, it quickly gets difficult and dangerous when the temperature drops and the wind picks up.” The last time I went to Angelus Hut was more than a decade earlier when I was flown by helicopter to report on its opening. From high above, the difficulty of the route was diluted. In the height of summer it was a combination of browns and greys - a symptom of the alpine environment where beech forest gives way to stark landscapes. It only took about 15 minutes to make that journey. This latest trip would be longer.

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1. Charles Anderson. | 2. The spine of Robert Ridge where snow gives way to scree. | 3. The journey back out of the Lake Angelus basin. | 4. Relax Hut at the start of Robert Ridge, amid a stark alpine environment. | 5. When things got a bit more hairy than the author anticipated. | 6. The warning at the start of Robert Ridge that the writer should have paid more heed to.

My neighbour and I had been wanting to go on a tramp and Angelus Hut seemed to be the best combination of difficulty, altitude and convenience. The weather conditions were looking good, but, still, it was October - not quite out of the winter conditions that can make it apparently perilous. After all, the hut itself sits at 1650 metres above sea level. The notes made it clear: “From May to October in most years the lake is frozen and snow blankets all four routes, and you may have to dig your way to the hut.”

We made good progress and felt like we were well prepared. My colleague was an ecologist - well versed in harsh conditions from camping on the ridges of exposed places to monitor vegetation for extended periods of time. We had a PLB, good all weather gear and plenty of food and water. We skipped up to Robert Ridge, admiring the changing vegetation, each element of the forest adapting as the altitude increased. We passed through the “Krummholz” - the zone between treeline and more open alpine vegetation, where tree species are limited by the harsh conditions to a dense shrub growth-form. And then the landscape opened up into that brown and grey. Then the landscape was punctuated by a singular pixelated figure. He was grizzled and bearded and clad in hi-viz. It was a sign, literally. The man on the sign held a hand out. “Decision time,” it read. “Feeling cold or tired?” it asked. “Weather getting worse?” it asked. Neither were worrisome. We were full of pep. The weather was blazing hot with no clouds in the sky. There was hardly a semblance of snow on the ground. “If yes,” the sign said, “turn back.” The answer was no. There were no notes about snow levels. We pressed on. The ecologist stopped to admire some of the finest raoulia Australis he had seen. They were full and plump and green and had come to be known by the colloquial name - “vegetable sheep”. Spirits were high, vegetation knowledge was coming thick and fast. And then the snow.

Robert Ridge laid out before us - its spine separating the scree and the snow. We traipsed along it, sliding on its gentle gradient. Soon we came across route markers barely visible and only just peeking out from the height of the snow. But the pack was firm and we pressed on. Then we came across the group. There were about six of them, male and female. They were prepared. They had settled down to put on brand-new crampons and pull out brand-new ice axes. My partner and I cynically narrowed our eyes. Surely that sort of preparation wasn’t required. Surely. It was. We took a look out along the next part of the journey. The gradient steepened and the snowpack increased. We waited for the group to set off and we joked with them that we would follow their lead. It was no joke. We literally did that. One of the group handed us both an ice axe. Our eyes narrowed. “You might need it,” he said. We took them and ventured on, following in their crampons footsteps, digging our axes into the high side of the slope. We laddered down and traversed across the slopes and started wishing for crampons of our own - those daggered beasts that made such tramping seemingly simple. But we didn’t have those. We only had their footsteps. So, we ventured on, leaning into the soles of our boots and holding our bodies in curious positions while waiting for the trail to be laid out before us.

Before long we felt like we had crossed the worst of it. The snow gave way to rock and our boots became more useful. We gleefully pushed ahead of the group. We thought we had crossed the worst of it. We hadn’t. Soon the rock subsided again for snow and the slope became more immense. But we carried on, ice axes in hand. We saw the tracks of skis ahead of us and met a couple whose friend had skied the entire slope. We trudged on, jealous of crampons and skis, and general preparation. And then, finally, the boot slipped. The ice axe went in by instinct and I slid for several metres before coming to a stop. Below was the deep valley of scree. If I had gone any further I would be going all the way down and having to walk out. But I stopped. Looked up and swore. I traversed along the line of snow and scree that was separating making the hut or not. I managed to clamber back up to take a breath. Then we saw the group of our saviours coming around the corner. So we waited once more for their footsteps. We slowly made our way to Angelus Hut, over the saddle and down to the lake. It was indeed frozen. The entire basin was covered in snow. We slid down to the hut, this time in relative control and knew that it had been a lucky break. Without that group, those ice axes, we would have headed back to the car long before we got into the snowy slope of the ridge. We were glad we didn’t have to. The night slowly came on and Venus rose over the other side of the basin. Skiers tramped back up to the ridge and we watched them carve back down. I’d never seen anything quite like it. The hut lit up with the voices and the light of myriad groups of trampers conversing and cooking. The next morning, we clambered back out of the basin and into dense vegetation. The snow subsided for flax and alpine tarns. We were thankful to the group that helped us out and this was the reward of the challenge. But the challenge was unneeded. A former colleague sent me a story a few days later about a rescue that happened on the ridge soon after our trip. Next time, we will have crampons.