Glossary
Adapted from various sources by Chandler A. Calderon

• aid climbing—a type of climbing where devices such as aiders, a kind of webbed ladder, are used to make upward progress
• choss—crumbly or loose rock
• cragging—outdoor climbing at a exlocation with several routes
• free climbing—a type of climbing where gear is used only for safety
• jug—a large, easily gripped handhold
• line—the route a climber takes up a rock face
• protection—equipment such as camming devices (“cams”) and nuts, which are inserted into cracks or pockets in stone and used to hold aid gear, stop falls, or support a climber’s weight
• roof—a horizontal overhang

Everyone called him Big Wall Pete after the world-famous California wall master Pete Takeda. Our Big Wall Pete of the South, Pete Kovacevich was not as renowned, but he still had the bona fides to earn the nickname with some notable ascents under his belt, including a free ascent of the famed big wall free climb Astroman. Pete had just moved to Atlanta in the mid-1990s. Short and energetic with a Michigander accent and wit, he was an injection of energy and hilarity to the local gym scene. More importantly, he could “get out.” His job designing aircraft interiors for wealthy jet-setters gave him a flexible schedule and some means to pursue weekday cragging. This made him a great partner for a freelance photographer.

Pete and I are about the same age, and we climbed about as hard in the gym, but Pete had that “real” climbing experience that I was hungry for. I use direct-aid techniques to get myself quickly up rock for photography, but I wanted to learn some more advanced techniques, like the kind you might use on a Yosemite multiday big wall adventure. I’d tried solo aid climbing before on some small walls like Allenbrook, a dusty, thirty-foot urban choss pile near Atlanta, but I needed Pete to coach me up some bigger lines.

We got out one Wednesday to Tennessee’s Suck Creek Canyon, sans guidebook, and began scouting for just the right one to cut my teeth on. While walking the cliff line, we came to a section of steep wall with a wide crack system following one roof after another as far up as I could see.

“Perfect. This one’s for you, man!” Pete lit a cigarette and dropped his pack while I studied the line intently. It looked messy. It was at least a hundred feet high, and I couldn’t see the top. I took a deep breath. “Alright, Pete,” I said. “What do I do?”

Pete snarled at me, “Just take one step at a time, man! And stay in your aiders. Don’t start free climbing.”

One step at a time. I could do that. I am the king of slow and methodical, and I had plenty of gear, still borrowed from a recent crack climbing trip to Utah’s Indian Creek. I plugged a cam high into the rock, clipped my aiders to it, and stood up.

Slowly, I pulled roof after roof, the cracks gobbling up protection. Words of encouragement wafted up to me along with cigarette smoke, both getting fainter with distance. Two hours went by. I was well above the treetops now, and I’d lost sight of Pete. His stream of smoke and chatter had faded away. “Hey Pete! I’m out of cams!” I gave the rope a few tugs. Silence. Was he asleep? I looked up at what seemed to be the last roof: a dark, ominous slot.

There’s something about moderate aid climbing that gets you real comfortable. You can’t fall; you can only go up. Craning my neck, I could see the last fifteen feet after the roof seemed to be lower-angle rock. Easy free climbing, I thought. Clear this last roof and it’s smooth sailing. I stood on a small ledge and placed my last cam to pull myself into the roof. It wasn’t set very well in the crack, but I just needed it to help me reach over the lip. I searched blindly above the roof until my hand landed on a nice jug. I felt confident, casual even. “Hey Pete!” I yelled down. “I’m just gonna climb to the top from here!”

I grabbed the jug and crabbed my feet up, leaving my aiders behind. Pulling the last roof, I began free climbing—and immediately realized my mistake. I was in sneakers, for one thing, not climbing shoes. The rope suddenly felt heavy with drag, pulling me back down as I clawed about the lichen for purchase. All the gear I had placed in the last couple of hours was for the purpose of holding body weight, not a fall. I also had no chalk. Why would I? I was aid climbing. But here I’d made a move I couldn’t reverse, and now I was committed to reaching the top.

Pete had disappeared below. All I could hear were his words echoing in my head. Don’t start free climbing. The exposure seemed to scream it at me now. I moved robotically up the slabby rock, pulling the rope with me as hard as I could. Fifteen feet above the roof, I found a small gap in the sandstone. I fiddled in a small nut, wedging it as best I could into the horizontal crack. I clipped the rope to it and gave it a gentle tug to test it. The nut popped out and clanged down the face, disappearing under the roof. I felt a wave of nausea. If I fell here, I was looking at a thirty-foot flight into the void, if the tipped-out cam below the roof held.

I eyed the last moves before the safety of a tree trunk above as my vision pinched down to a dark tunnel. At the end of that tunnel I imagined Big Wall Pete, dragging on a cigarette and grinning back at me, nodding as if to say, This one’s for you, man. I high-stepped, grabbed a dusty knob of sandstone, and lunged up toward the tree.

Years later, having long since sworn off aid climbing for fun, I returned to Suck Creek and found that line in the guidebook: a moderate 5.10 free climb with a “sinister, black roof slot” called Five Roofs in Reverse.

Andrew Kornylak, SB’96, is a filmmaker and photographer based in the American South. He studied mathematics at the University of Chicago, where he was a member of the varsity swim team and played violin in the University Symphony Orchestra. Through the University’s Outdoor Adventure Club he found a lifelong passion and subject matter for his photography hobby. Spare These Stones is his first book.

Excerpted from SPARE THESE STONES by Andrew Kornylak (September 2025). Published by Mountaineers Books. All rights reserved. Used with permission from the publisher.