High points of a multifaceted shoot: Day one—a videographer plunges into his work as the team paddles off to a strong start. Day three—the TV crew goes in search of the team, which has dropped out of the race. Day four—a cameraman risks injury to get action shots of other teams.

Brendon Allen did not look happy. He had just come from a chat with producer James Heyward, who was having ideas about enhancing our kayaking coverage.

All Brendon had to do was wade into the Waiau River—which was not warm—with a waterproof camera. Oh and take care not to be swept off by the rapids or sliced by a paddle. You can manage that, can’t you, Brendon?

“It was almost a dare from the producer,” he explained later, “so I had to follow through with it.”

The following day, Brendon got a reprieve when our boat’s engine died. “That’s a new one,” said the pilot. “On a normal river [untamed by dams and power plants], this would be the end.” Of our lives, I think he meant. It was funny, in a humbling way, to watch low-tech racers easily pass our no-tech vessel.

Our pilot poked doggedly at the engine, 147>> which startled us all by revving back to life. We raced along—creating a wake that won us little popularity with the paddlers—and caught up to Boyd Matson and the Macpac Geographic team. Brendon squirmed into his wet suit and ventured into the river. Before long all we could see above the froth was a camera and a black National Geographic Television cap.

Several times he fought to stay standing on the slick rocks, and I wondered how he could hold, much less operate, a camera. 01>> But he did, and he got his story.

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Paddling kayaks on the Waiau River, team Macpac Geographic got off to a good start on day one. Late that afternoon they climbed aboard mountain bikes and pedaled through the night. They were still strong, still enthusiastic.

Then, on the morning of day two, came what the Southern Traverse organizers cheerfully termed a mountain run. According to the race briefing it would take 14 or so hours. Videographer Yves Simard and support crew member Al Wood joined the team for this leg of the race. We expected to see them all again sometime after dark.

We didn’t. But no need to panic. The team motto, after all, was “Start slow, then taper off.” They were probably just finding their pace—and struggling with the driving rain. No doubt we’d see them on the morning of day three.

We didn’t. Still no panic, but growing tension. We knew the athletes could fend for themselves, but how were our TV colleagues faring? They’d been out in a stormy night with no tents, no sleeping bags, no breakfast.

Word finally came through the grapevine that our team—lost, wet, weary—had given up and started back toward checkpoint seven, where the mountain run had begun. Determined to do something other than sit around, we piled into a Range Rover and decided to find them.

Where the checkpoint should have been, we found a note 18>> telling race stragglers to drop in on a local farmer and borrow the phone to call race organizers for a lift. Farmer Darryl King 32>> hadn’t seen our team, but he invited us to search his land.

Paddocks gave way to rows of gum trees. We stopped now and then to squint across the starkly beautiful terrain 12>> and try sounding Australian bush calls. We hoped the team would respond.

Koowee. Silence. Koowee. Silence. Koowee. Silence.

Brendon had an idea. We were near the Waiau, and its banks might just be the easiest route back for the team. If we waited there, we’d probably see them eventually.

We did. First specks, then shapes, then tired—but smiling—faces. 42>> We had our team. We had our shot.

Yves Simard was shooting time-lapse scenics in the Takitimu Mountains on the South Island. It looked as if we were in for a peaceful afternoon.

Then we saw them. Cyclists. 85>> And not just any cyclists. These were cyclists with a story, Team Dress Smart. One of their five members had landed in the hospital and wanted the others to “carry my spirit with them.” They did so, even though they had officially dropped. (The rules require all members of a team to finish.)

It was the sort of inspirational, give-’em-goosebumps, swell-the-music story that would lend “human interest” to the film. We had to have it.

Grabbing camera and gear, we piled into our van, with Yves riding shotgun. Once we reached the cyclists, he leaned out the window. Then he leaned farther. Eventually he and his camera hung outside the car 88>>, anchored only by a bare foot wedged into the headrest. The results: wheel-level videos, POV videos, and in-your-face (literally) videos.

His one comment: “Don’t tell my mother about this.”

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