Robin Illingworth writes about climbing with his close friend, who stayed active long after a semantic dementia diagnosis.

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Several years ago

I've known Chris for some time now; he's one of those people you get to know once you've been climbing for a few years. I'm sure you'll have a Chris in your life - always there and dependable. You phone them up for a day out and away you go.

They too have a partner/wife/husband/children/back catalogue of friends/plans for the future. As I sit here now, I can visualise myself and Chris together: in a car on the way to an adventure, walking along a track, sat on a rock at the bottom of a crag, hanging from a belay swapping gear, drinking in the glories of the scenery, gloriously drinking in the pub. I can hear us chatting away about what we've been up to, the state of our health, families, the government. If you met us you'd say we were comfortable, in a good place, having a laugh – just good friends, out for the day.

In one of the gaps between seeing each other, I pick up a copy of a newspaper. The front-page headline reads: "Dementia is now top killer" and, further down the article, there is the chilling sentence: "There is no known curative treatment for this condition." The article tells me that we are all staring down the barrel of a gun and that for one in three people this condition is unavoidable. It makes Russian Roulette sound like a safe bet. And it is at this moment that the two parts of this story come together: one of my climbing partners and the frailty of old age.

I know that this gun's been fired and hit its target - my friend, Chris. Chris has been diagnosed as having dementia, or living with dementia, or waiting for a scan or however you say "Tough shit, mate."

We still get away. Arran, a club trip with various friends. On a glorious day Chris and I head up Glen Rosa to do the South Ridge Direct of Cir Mhor. An Uber Classic. Lots of chat as we casually head up the valley. Another couple arrive just after us and then sneak round to the side to bypass the first pitch and get in front of the old men. We're not too worried as it's a summer day with many hours of daylight in front of us.

The route is well within our abilities and we make good progress up the giant granite rocks. The other couple are struggling on the steep Y-crack pitch and have placed several bits of gear and come down to change leaders. They wave us through and with aplomb I place a couple of pieces of gear and leapfrog over them and pull up to the top of the pitch. Serene joy. The offer of a top rope is declined – perhaps a step too far. I hope they get up it, but we never see them again.

On our way down we rest and paddle in the stream to cool our feet. Cold, clean water - you wouldn't swap it for anything else and right now I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. The anxiety which has started to develop in Chris has been on hold for the day but creeps back in as we head home. Interacting with a life outside of the hills has its own constraints and expectations. A simple life on the crag and in the hills has been good therapy.

Why do we climb? Because when we are stripped back to a primal state, climbing is one of the last things to go.

A few years ago

Chris's diagnosis of semantic dementia has been established for a while now. I've gone from acceptance that Chris has the condition, progressed (via Wikipedia) to knowing a bit more about it, trying to develop some empathy and understanding (difficult I know for all of us unreconstructed males) and then devising some sort of coping strategies. In short this translates as: "OK, Chris has got dementia; let's go to the climbing wall then."

We both move our bases; I to the Lake District, Chris to become more in touch with his caving roots. We still meet up for odd days but a bit less often now. We go more frequently to the climbing wall. This is seen as safe territory and a known venue, so there are no surprises.  A practised routine gets us to the bottom of the routes. It becomes a weekly feature. It's also light relief for Chris's partner to pack him off in safe hands for an evening. It's a familiar routine: meet in the foyer, go to the changing rooms, climb, have a cup of tea and a conversation. I realise that I've almost become a carer – but, let's be honest, as we get older that's what your climbing partner is – a carer. Climbing as therapy. It's a glimpse of the future.

We choose a route, usually looking for an easy line on one of the less steep sections of the wall — and off we go. It's all about the colour of the holds. Familiar cries ring out: "What's the red like?"; "Let's try the blue"; "The yellow looks steep"; "I used a green." The calls of a pack of wall climbers. Swirling around, we gather and murmurate for the evening in this easy, familiar and safe space.

I'm asked: "Are you OK to still go with Chris to the climbing wall?" and I rationalise it like this. My relationship with Chris goes back a long way and I trust him. What this means in practice is that I trust that he is capable of the simple act of keeping a firm hold on the dead rope, watching me when I'm climbing and, if I fall, moving the belay hand back so that the belay device locks.

I trust Chris because this is an automatic, long established, practised, perfected routine. Chris will not take his hand off the dead rope. Chris will catch me should I fall. OK, I would accept that there is a hint of a question there: "Are you sure he'll do that?" It's the same with all the new partners we climb with, I guess – a new partner or a new recruit who's only been bouldering before. 

I know in Chris's case that the instinct is strong. I'm told by those who know, that these instinctive and well-practised routines are things that Chris will not forget. He might forget where he is and what my name is, but not how to belay. I can watch Chris carefully when we are at a climbing wall. We make eye contact and on a quick shout of: "Yo Chris!" the hand assumes the position and he steps back, eyes on me. There is the reassuring tug of a rope going tight. We're safe, in a good place.

The wall is always busy on a Tuesday night; it's the local club night. Over the course of a couple of years I have got to know a few people there and have casual passing conversations with them. I become aware that quite a few people know Chris well – mostly cavers who've converted to climbing because the guide book refers to "hot rock" and not "cold sludge".

I begin to recognise a moment's hesitation in Chris when old friends say hello. The bluster of a cheery greeting and non-committal response is well established. Behind it you can see the quizzical look and panic which comes into Chris's eyes and disappears in a flash. I realise that Chris can't remember who he is, nor remember his name, but he does have a glint of an understanding that he should know who this friendly person is. I work out what to say and move things on with a practised ease. "Red route is good, have you done that?" Privately, Chris's friends approach and express concern and support. They know and understand and they move on to the blue route.

Chris notices that many of the routes list an option of 'rainbow'. Of course, rainbow holds don't actually exist. It means that you climb the route using any of the available colours on the wall. Don't tell me that you haven't done that a few times! A rainbow route is an abstract concept. Chris asks where the rainbow holds are, and I explain. This doesn't process and I get another glimpse into the world of semantic dementia. Abstract doesn't work with dementia. It leads to increasing frustration and unease. It might be red and blue here, but over there it might be green and black.

"There's no black in a rainbow."

"Yes, that is true, but it just means use anything."

"Well why don't they say that then?"

My responses become just a tad sharper. We climb the route, Chris using any hold. Back to the familiar. We coil up the rope and move on. "Let's do that nice red."

"Where's the rainbow holds?" It starts again. Every line has a rainbow grade. A frantic Chris is asking other climbers where the rainbow holds are. I become frantic. Somehow we carry on climbing and move round the corner "What's a yurple?" [yellow and purple swirls]. In my head I'm screaming and curling up into a ball. On the outside I say: "It doesn't matter Chris, just use any hold."

At some point the inevitable happens and I lose confidence that Chris is a safe climbing partner. We were climbing at Bram Crag Quarry in the Lake District. Bolted micro-granite – now there's a thing. I lead Marine Slab 6a and safely lower off. I suppose I had forgotten that bolted climbing outdoors requires another skill, re-threading. As casually as I can, I check that Chris remembers what to do and become alarmed that it is clear he does not. Chris doesn't have a cow's tail.

"A cow's tail? I'm not a cow!" he says.

Have you ever tried to explain how to re-thread a lower-off? It's a multi-stage, safety-critical process. I nervously watch as Chris somehow manages to do this 20 metres off the ground. I have no idea if he's safe.

This has got to be the end of Chris's climbing career. I can't cope with that level of responsibility or guilt for someone at the other end of a rope. The precious aura of confidence has gone. We manage to do some walks around our homes and still get out a bit, but our outings never seem to have that same primal drive that climbing has. Walking the dog becomes Chris's last contact with the outdoors.

Later on

Chris is in a care home specialising in people with his condition and is incredibly lucky to find a place where care is constant. At the same time, Chris is incredibly unlucky that the final stages are approaching all too rapidly and institutionalised care is the best option. Visits are difficult.

I hear tales of Chris expressing his desperation to taste the joys of outdoor life. There is a trellis fence at the bottom of the garden which leads over a wall and to the Yorkshire Dales beyond. Chris is literally climbing the walls. I can't help but smile. The urge and ability to climb is so deeply embedded that even though parts of his brain are completely addled, the desire is still there. Why do we climb? Because when we are stripped back to a primal state, climbing is one of the last things to go.

***

You've probably guessed by now that Chris is not his real name. Chris is every one of us and could well be you or someone close to you. Chris was very real to all those who knew him. If you haven't come across a Chris by now, you will. Time has passed. Chris's light has shone, spluttered a bit and then gone out. We all move on. I become the repository for Chris's climbing gear and guidebooks. Chris's partner is glad and comforted to know that they are going to a good home and will get used.

I can't believe that I ever shared a route with Chris and used his ancient gear. There's a couple of boxes of guidebooks. I'm aware that guidebooks are the very manifestation of a climbers' hopes and aspirations. Dreams on a bookshelf. I keep some, pass some on and throw out a few others. I flick through the Arran guide, which magically opens at South Ridge Direct on Cir Mhor, where I find scribbled Rob Jun '12. It's enough to bring back memories of a great day out and I can feel the cold, clear water bathing our feet. I am unbelievably glad that I can still recall that day and that a couple of words are enough to bring it all back. I know in that moment, that of all the things I might lose as frailty takes hold, losing my memory is the thing I fear the most.

You will all probably know someone with dementia.  If you don't then you probably will all too soon. Since Chris, my own mother has "died with dementia." Someone who knows more about this than I do said that having dementia is a bit like having all your memories locked away in a bookcase, but not being able to access them. Occasionally, you might be able to open the door to a small number of the books. Occasionally, one of the books might magically fall open at a well-thumbed page of recollection. Which books and when is not in your, or anyone's, control, but none of the books are lost, they're just behind a sheet of glass.

Dementia-friendly climbing is achievable and if you know of a partner or friend so afflicted, please make the effort to go out for the day with them. People with dementia pick up on the negative vibes that those around them give out and can get annoyed and go into a downward spiral of tired grumpiness. This may well sound a bit like many of the friends and partners you know already – it depends how old you are. In its early stages, dementia has many traits shared with 'getting on a bit' and as such is not to be feared, but rather accepted as just another one of those things that are coming down the line.

The Future?

As I sit around with all the other climbers and look a little bemused at the goings on in the hut, café or pub, please talk to me. I'm not mad. I might know you, but I don't really remember much. Otherwise, I'm doing well for my age.

I can cope with most of the stuff that needs to be done but if pushed I might not remember some critical information. Names are a problem – just tell me. Tell me some of the tales. Tell me about the good days. I don't really care if they are true - after all, I won't remember - but you might just open that bookcase and a well-thumbed guidebook might fall open at a lasting memory. I will be aware of how you felt and will take great comfort in picking up the good vibes. Let me know that we had a great time - friends, out for the day. Above all else, I just want to know that we had a laugh together.