hundred-foot ropes out, two on the stretcher, one on himself, had put on a crash helmet, and another on the casualty, lent a third to Ron James (the other man guiding the stretcher) and they were ready to go.

My job was to safeguard Jack Henson who hung over the edge to act as shouter. This was a mistake that was soon realised. The positions should have been reversed in view of my high-pitched bray.

I watched intently as the two guides manhandled the stretcher to the edge. I saw Lees pause there and look down. I remembered the police and civilians rubber-necking below. He pawed like a dog scratching and rocks fell away below him: enough to make them move out of the way before the stretcher dislodged others more lethal. We smiled grimly.

The two guides walked backwards, drawing the stretcher after them. It was co-ordinated, almost silent, beautiful. The casualty lay unmoving, face up to the sky, strapped and prone; the stretcher tilted, the ropes tightened, the men beside me stiffened; one heard the faint movement of boots grinding deeper into gravel ... the guides kept on walking down the rock, face inwards, and the stretcher followed. Their bright helmets disappeared and there were only the ropes running over the edge, and silence from all the men lowering.

They went down without a hitch - 485 feet to the screes below, the longest lower which Valley had done and the second with the five-hundred-foot ropes. Lees said afterwards that the knowledge that there was no knot to jam made an incredible difference. He felt, at last, perfectly safe.

As they were pulling the ropes back (and that was a job!) someone said:

"There's a sheep."

Everything in me revolted. Not on Lliwedd, not in the rain, not after a rescue. The team could never be brought back for a sheep, and it was already dusk. I looked. Yes, there was a sheep, way over beyond Great Chimney, this side of Central Gully, unmistakably stuck.

"We must rescue it," I said.

Bill Trench stared at me.

"Are you kidding?"

Poor sheep, I thought, I cannot insist. Besides it is stupid in the dark.

We climbed carefully up Terminal Arête, myself supposedly leading one of the rope-carriers; we were all tired, I wasn't much of a safeguard. Everyone else had disappeared. It poured again before we reached the top.

It seemed a long way to the Land-Rover. By the time we'd been to the Pen y Gwryd to drop the First Aid kit, and dropped all the helpers at their different homes it was 1.0 a.m. I hadn't mentioned the sheep but I knew something would have to be done. Continue to Page 5