Gerard Fusil was a salty reporter with brutal events such as the Paris-Dakkar Rally, Camel Trophy Cup and BOC Challenge sailing races to his credit before he came up with the concept of an adventure race. With only an ironic sense of pride and foreboding, he tells the 80 gathered journalists at our first press briefing that adventure races are the hardest events in the world to cover. After four years of this folly— and Sunday's typically exhausting coverage— this journalist is inclined to agree.

"The challenge is to anticipate what is going to happen, and you can't do that in this type of event," explains Fusil. "It's very difficult." Besides the weather issues, such as submerged camera equipment in a drowned jeep or a river swim carrying sound equipment overhead that come to mind, there are logistical issues. Moving computers, satellite phones, cameras and full camping gear across a 500-mile course— all while working 15-hour days— can turn the hardest reporter into a blathering idiot (or so we hear).

Enter here for two free tickets on Varig Brazilian Airlines for an authentic adventure of your own. [more]

As it did for the competitors, Sunday began normally enough for these journalists, and offers a glimpse of the circus that is "field reporting." Typically there are two teams of reporters, sent out from HQ each morning to intercept the teams on course. One group of 4x4s heads for the leading edge of the race and demands a tough hike or trek, while mini-vans drive other less-inclined journos to scenic lakeside vistas for "beauty shots."

This reporter gets the best (and worst) of both worlds. As a pool photographer for the race organization, I often ride along with Fusil in his helicopter, hanging out the door while clipped in by climbing harness—as I shoot daily race photos. Sunday almost worked out this way, then quickly turned surreal.

Waiting for the "helico" (as the French organizers call it) to take off from an idle football field in Granja, I was struck by the contrasts as we stood quietly, trying to conserve energy. Sweltering heat and humidity kept things still, while elevator music wafted across the field from the town's white Portuguese church. Frank Sinatra, Edith Piaf, The Beatles, and I'm pretty sure the theme from "Love Story," punctuated the scene of boys riding bikes, and a fat pig snorting its way under our $1,200-per-hour transport.

But that was only the beginning, as a forced-landing in the small village of Santa Terezinha re-routed my day. The entire village— which included no one who had ever seen a helicopter— surrounded the impromptu landing zone. I was soon following a string of children into the village center, where I hooked up with a very surprised American television crew from GRB, and hitched a ride to the front of the race to intercept Pharmanex-Spie by hook or by crook, given that I was the only photographer in the entire region.

After a full day's shooting in the forest, it was time to head back to HQ, to file photos and my Outside Online dispatch from the satellite phone. We left the village at 4:00 p.m., leaving plenty of time to arrive by deadline. But as our 12- vehicle caravan rumbled up the rough dirt roads (see map 2) east of the course, we were stopped dead in our tracks, where we would remain for much of the night.

Rivers swollen by the afternoon's heavy rains were now impassible, confirmed by several people wading through the water, up to their waists in the swiftly moving brown river. Even with the two organization Land Rover Defenders (weighing in at 3 tons each) and several Toyota Land Cruisers, we were stuck. To turn around would cost at least three hours, and the locals said the river would be passable within that time.

So the GRB crew, led by the sport's most enthusiastic cheerleader (and producer) Lori Hall, dropped the tailgates, fired up the butane stoves and cooked dinner for 26 people when all were counted. The French TV crew, long since stranded by their team, lit up the darkening Brazilian night with their halogen Beta-cams, filming the crazy Americans as they cooked homemade spaghetti with rolls, melon, coffee and even a tiny airline bottle of Chivas Regal to pass around.

Soon enough a busload of drunken Brazilian footballers skidded to a halt at the rear of our riverside parking lot, then quickly poured out and starting singing and dancing to round out the scene. "The funny thing is, they lost their game" deadpanned Sammy W., our favorite Brazilian journalist, as he hung from a hammock strung between two 4x4s.

Finally, at 10:00 p.m., it was time to attempt the crossing and, ironically, only the Land Cruisers even made the attempt— what a waste of fine British technology those Land Rovers were. After a close call and a near roll-over in the river we were all on the other shore, soon swerving down the pot-hole riddled highway at 55 mph— arriving at the HQ at midnight and beginning another day of covering the longest adventure race ever. And we're only in the second day.