Spare These Stones: A Journey Through Southern Climbing Culture is a new book that focuses on the evolution of climbing in the Southern United States during the 1990s and 2000s. Below is a review by Gus Alexandropoulos, a climber who’s been visiting this part of North America for decades.

As the book description reads, “From its clandestine roots, when climbing was an underground pursuit shrouded in secrecy with areas passed around through word of mouth, to its rise in accessibility through grassroots efforts and land conservation, photographer and filmmaker Andrew Kornylak delves into the intricate threads of geography and culture.”

From Nashville to Charlotte and Atlanta to Lexington, this region is known for limestone and sandstone cliffs, hard bouldering, and classic roof cracks. Highlighting efforts of the community to protect climbing areas, Kornylak shares stories about Jerry Roberts, Joey Henson, Greg Kottkamp, Lisa Rands, Adam Henry, James Litz, and many more at off-the-beaten path spots and iconic destinations like the Tennessee Wall near Chattanooga and Horse Pens 40 Ranch in Alabama.

You can find a copy of Spare These Stones at Mountaineer Books here.

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Book Review: Spare These Stones (2025)

Timber, coal, tobacco, and corn whiskey; historically, these were Appalachia’s main exports, and they helped define the region both economically and culturally for generations. Anyone visiting the area, even up until the early 1980s, would have struggled to imagine it becoming a globally recognised climbing destination. At the time, the North American climbing scene was still fixated on America’s southwest desert landscapes and the granite walls in California. Appalachia had none of these overtly dramatic landscapes, but what it did have (often guarded by impenetrable walls of rhododendrons as well as a small cadre of passionate locals) was an almost endless supply of steep sandstone cliffs and boulders. Over the years, as sport climbing and bouldering became firmly established, these areas yielded some of the best climbing in the world.

In his new book Spare These Stones, Andrew Kornylak, a photographer and writer who has been climbing in the region since the early 90s, has documented much of the unique scene that defines Appalachia’s climbing. Evocative images of climbers in thread-worn jackets smoking cigarettes speak to the area’s blue-collar underpinnings, as do the numerous pictures of bearded mountain men – a regional aesthetic that was popular long before the advent of artisanal beard balms. The climbing images are similarly effective, with beautifully composed scenes that capture the region’s physical beauty. Yet unlike many similar climbing anthologies, Kornylak also showcases routes that have been defaced with graffiti. Some readers may initially be put off by this decision, but the pictures underpin the reality that many of these backwoods areas were also used by locals to pursue a different sort of outdoor recreation. Again, it further highlights the unique culture (like it or not) that exists (existed?) in some of these more rural or isolated areas. Kornylak buttresses many of these images with anecdotes and short stories that provide insight into the region’s development as well as the characters who helped create the routes and problems many now travel to experience. The writing is refreshingly sparse, with little of the bombast that often seems to plague some writers.

Do I have any criticisms? Well, some readers may be surprised to find that the Red River Gorge and the New River Gorge are omitted, seeing as how both of these major areas are shown in the beautiful hand-drawn regional map in the opening of the book. It could be argued (correctly) that these areas have already been thoroughly documented and that they are slightly off the heart-shaped (as per the title of the map) driving route shown on the map, but a short section, even as an aside, would have been interesting; the author clearly seems to know and understand this region.

The other minor quibble is that the book seems to focus more on bouldering than route climbing. Some of this is understandable as the driving route travels through some amazing bouldering areas. Again, this is not a major issue, and it does not significantly detract from the book’s other strengths.

So, should you buy this book? Well, if you want to get a true sense of the culture and community of this vast and historically underreported world-class climbing region, do yourself a favour and get a copy. In fact, it would almost serve as a great high-level guidebook for an extended road trip. – Gus Alexandropoulos