Chris Weidner is a climber, writer and a senior contributing editor to Climbing magazine.

My right fist stacks against the back of my left hand, tape gloves brown and torn from a hundred feet of vertical battle. My core quivers, drawing a taut string, toes through fingertips, just long enough to grab the #6 Friend at my knees, slide it up and slam in another hand/fist stack. My rope is clipped to the Friend—a giant aluminum cam wedged in the crack—and it's my only protection from an unthinkable plummet toward the ground.

Like a spider on a web, photographer Celin Serbo hangs just a few feet above me from a 9mm-thick static rope, 12 stories above the ground. The rope is attached to two half-inch by four-inch steel bolts that I drilled into the soft sandstone earlier in the day. As Celin shoots The Widener crack, mechanical ascenders attached to his harness allow him to climb the static line ahead of me as I fight upward. It's a slow, torturous battle that allows Celin plenty of time to swap lenses, take stills and video and keep out of my way.

Lauren Lee, my climbing partner, holds the rope below. She cowers to one side, dodging bits of sandstone that shower from the crack as I struggle higher, squirming inch by inch. My feet scramble up until heels and toes lock tenuously in place. Sand and sweat form thick, salty droplets that slide into my open mouth, grating my teeth as I grimace. Crusty clumps clog my raw, dry nostrils. My entire body vibrates.

But I don't notice any of these things until I fall. The dread of an imminent fall is always worse than the actual air time. After hundreds of short, safe falls like this one, I should be used to the sensation. But the truth is, falling—and climbing—still terrifies me, even after 22 years. I think that's why I keep going back up.

The challenge in climbing photography, as far as I can tell, is to freeze the fear as it happens. Or to freeze the elation, or the struggle.  Most climbing photography is staged. Photographers tend to shoot and reshoot the same climb, or even a short section of a climb, until an exact body position or facial expression is captured. Of course, the light must also be perfect and the colorful clothing has to pop out of the image. The actual climbing can feel like an afterthought.

With Celin it's different.

He aims to capture climbing as naturally as possible. For the most part it's simple: I climb and he shoots. On occasion he'll ask me to reclimb a route if, for example, the lighting is extraordinary, but Celin usually nails it the first time. Our friend Dan Gambino assisted Celin on this Green River adventure by setting up scenes and lighting, carrying heavy equipment and belaying when needed—all of which makes it easier for Celin to shoot this way.

Before his ascent in photography, Celin spent years gaining all-around climbing skills as a guide for the Colorado Mountain School. He's one of only a handful of climbing photographers who's self-sufficient both on the ground and on the cliff. He and I have collaborated in photojournalism for five years now, and he works harder than any photographer I've ever shot with.