Then Phil and I push out into the sun, boots hitting pavement, minds already snapping into rescue mode.
More details about the rescue hit my phone screen as Phil and I sprint across the car park towards the rescue centre.
FMR Control Room
Two climbers stuck on Striding Edge.
One with a potentially broken ankle.
Both panicking. Storm front rolling in.
Striding Edge in poor visibility. Brilliant. My favourite sort of Friday.I should have known that the nice weather won’t last long. It never does.
Tommy is already outside the FMR centre handing out radios like complimentary mints. Given the difficulty of this rescue, I’m not surprised to see that two other units were called in.
Just as I store my backpack in one of the FMT vehicles, Chris roars into the car park in his massive American-style pickup, the kind with the open flatbed at the back, big enough to haul a whole lot of hay around. Rob tumbles out of the passenger side, still trying to zip his rucksack, a foil blanket hanging out like a misplaced flag.
Nick arrives shortly after, all purposeful stride and barely hidden excitement. He lives for this. He’ll deny it, but we all know it.
“Clouds are thick as soup,” Tommy reports, clicking his radio on. “Casualties are around the mid-point on the ridge. Woman’suninjured but at risk of hypothermia. Man’s likely got a fracture. They can’t move.”
Phil’s jaw tightens. “Striding Edge is exposed today.”
“You don’t say,” Chris mutters.
We gear up fast. Radios. Helmets. Ropes. Harnesses. Everything gets stored in the boots of our two vehicles. The stretcher goes on the roof rack. Everything is a routine we could complete blindfolded and we’re in the vehicles within minutes.
The clouds are no longer grey but almost black as we climb the access track. The fells loom dark and shapeless, the wind sweeping hard enough to rattle the windows. Phil taps his leg, the same way he always does before a technical rescue. Not nerves — focus. He becomes a different man out here.
When we reach the drop-off point, daylight feels thin, almost fragile.
Tommy takes command instantly. “Alex and Phil, you’re lead. Chris and Rob anchor. Nick and I set up top-line support and manage radio.”
Nick’s eyes flick to mine, competitive as always, but he nods. When the chips are down, he’s steady.
We move out along the ridge, single file. Boots feeling the rock, hands hovering close for balance. The clouds hang low,sometimes clearing enough to reveal the long drop on either side, sometimes closing in until the ridge is nothing more than a shadow under our feet.
“Feels like we’re walking across a knife edge,” Rob mutters behind us.
Chris grunts. “Save the poetry, Wordsworth.”
A faint cry echoes through the mist.
Phil stops dead. “There. Hear that?”
We listen. Another cry, strained and tremulous.
We follow the sound until two shapes emerge. A man huddled against the ridge, face grey with pain. A woman gripping the rock so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
“We’re from Fellside Mountain Rescue,” I call. My voice always drops on rescues, gentler, steadier. “You’re safe now.”
The woman sobs with relief. “We couldn’t move. I looked down. I froze.”
“Then don’t look down,” I say gently. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
Phil slides down beside the injured man. “I’m Phil. Mind if I take a look at your ankle?”
“It hurts,” the man manages.
