Lees was an experienced mountaineer when he went to Valley in 1952, but he knew little more of mountain rescue than any other man who had been climbing for some years and had helped out on the occasional accident. Yet in the nine years that followed he was mountain rescue. He had no time to call his own. Everywhere he went, like a doctor, he left word of his destination. Except abroad, we have seldom spent a leave together without being involved in a rescue.

He always maintained that I should go out with the team if I were available. After all, he would point out, I was a guide; the only thing I didn't have was brute strength. But I had a voice better than that of most men (because of its pitch) for communication. Almost invariably I had as good a knowledge of the district involved - particularly in a search - as himself. (We were guides to all the same districts, with the exception of the Cairngorms, which were his alone). And he always knew that, even if I didn't do any positive good, no one would have to look after me. I would, indeed, in my motherly way, be keeping an eye on the novices, all others concentrating on the casualty.

But when we were sought out in pubs or on the street (once he flashed for me on a cinema screen) and people turned to watch with avid curiosity, I would be sweating with embarrassment as I waited for the first familiar sign of recognition of my presence.

"Come on, get changed, you go up with John from the distillery, and the others will go up from the hostel."

After about ten minutes of frantic pulling on of anoraks, tearing them off again to cram in a sack, smudging lipstick and eye shadow, there would be a few moments respite in a police station or on a street corner, waiting for transport.

"You know you'll go too fast for me."

"Rubbish!"

A long silence. I would know he was working it all out. I would wait, wondering what the situation was out in the darkness, above the town. Injured? Stranded? Dead or alive?

"Here's the sergeant."

"Yes. Look, Johnnie, if you get ahead, don't wait for me."

"No - but don't waste time."

My obsession to justify this recognition kept me going, and ensured that I never came in last. But it was hard work. Going up a rise you couldn't think, only fight - but when you topped the lip and the gradient eased, you wondered if the heart could burst. What happened to a pump that worked overtime? Did it seize from overheating?
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