I am hiking across the arid wasteland surrounding the Russian launch complex at the Baikonur Cosmodrome in central Asia. TASS photographer Albert Pushkarev, AP photographer Alexander Zemlianichenko and I are sneaking in to get a closer look at the Soyuz TM spacecraft when it takes off.

I'm here in Kazakhstan as part of the first-ever exchange program between a U.S. newspaper and Fotokhronika TASS. The program was developed by Geary Broadnax, Executive Assistant to the Senior Vice-President at the Houston Post, Fred Baldwin, Director of Houston FotoFest, and Natalya Yermilina, Assignments Editor of Fotokhronika TASS.

On board the joint U.K./U.S.S.R. space flight are two Russian cosmonauts, Anatoli Artsebarski and Sergi Krikalyov, and the first British cosmonaut, Helen Sharman. The rest of the media are safely behind a concrete wall a mile away.

We trudge through blowing dust and scrubby plants that bloom during the desert's brief springtime. The grit that gets between my teeth reminds me that the Soviets once tested their ICBM's and nuclear weapons near here. But most of the dust comes from the nearby Aral Sea where decades of collective cotton farming have created a gigantic ecological disaster area.

My friends and I settle down beside two huge abandoned spools of wire about 400 yards from the rocket. No one tried to stop us; the only people we saw were two teenaged solders digging a foxhole an hour ago. At Kennedy Space Center, NASA swat teams keep the media 3-1/2 miles away from the pad. Here, no one seems to care, although visions of gulags dance in my head.

The entire Soviet space program looks primitive to me. With modifications, they are using the same booster they used 30 years ago. I'm used to the high-tech glitter of Johnson Space Center and Kennedy. Here, everything is stripped down, rugged and functional. But the Soviet space program works. By using relatively cheap, primitive rockets, they have built and maintained the Mir orbiting space station.

I get my cameras ready, then glance back at the distant viewing stands. I get a nasty, creepy feeling down my spine when I see that we are sitting directly between the pad and the huge tracking dishes aimed at the rocket. I look over at my two Russian companions and try to relax. They do this all the time and they look healthier than I--maybe microwaves are the health craze of the future!

Anyway, the launch is only minutes away. Two huge arms that have remained clamped to the side of the rocket for days now fold back like scissors. I see the white fog of liquid oxygen and frost boiling away from the boosters. We wait in silence; the Soviets don't believe in countdowns, and we couldn't hear it if they did.

Now the smaller umbilical arms pull back from the capsule and there is a burst of light at the rocket's base. A second later the crackling roar of the engines slams into us. The rocket sits on the pad for 10 to 15 seconds as dozens of main and steering engines ignite and achieve full thrust. There are worrying flashes under the pad as the engines fire, but there is much less dramatic smoke and steam than an American launch.

Though I'm wearing earplugs, the noise is stunning. Then the rocket leaps from the pad on a welding torch-bright flame hundreds of feet long. Moments later it disappears into the high, white overcast sky; only the fading crackle of engines remains.

We gather our cameras and, grinning like kids, hike to a nearby highway to thumb a ride back to Leninsk, 25 miles away. I'm feeling pretty cocky about having watched the launch close up, and can hardly wait to brag to the British media over dinner. Then I meet a lone Russian TV cameraman by the road. He was on the opposite side of the rocket taping the liftoff from only 100 yards away! I feel a bit crestfallen.

The 40-day exchange program has been fantastic, fascinating and exhausting. I've attended May Day, Victory Day, been backstage at the Bolshoi Ballet, toured Star City, visited dachas and churches and kindergartens and old age homes and black markets.

During my time in Russia, my hosts never tried to conceal blemishes or avoid outside scrutiny. In fact, the biggest surprise of the trip came from the openness of Soviet society. This is in striking contrast to the United States, where it is a headache even arranging a tour behind the scenes at JSC with my Soviet counterpart, Albert Pushkarev.

It is a sobering thought. In these days of glasnost, it is more difficult to take pictures in the U.S. than in the U.S.S.R. I got amazing access to once super-secret Soviet launch and training facilities, but it is almost impossible to see American astronauts training or visit mission control during a flight.

Albert is astounded and critical at the lack of press freedom in the U.S. We first run into problems when he wants to shoot pictures at the Houston Ballet. The union won't allow outsiders to photograph their dancers backstage or during a show.

During the following weeks we run into the headaches familiar to any American photojournalist: mall security at the Galleria, no trespassing signs, rules against photographing from rooftops, and rent-a-cops everywhere. People refuse to let us come on their property because we might break a leg and sue them for a million dollars. American journalists are so used to dealing with these problems that we no longer see them.

In this land of the free, I really don't have a good explanation for my Soviet counterpart. It is a sad state of affairs when it is easier to shoot pictures in Russia than in the United States. It took a trip to the "closed" society of Russia to open my eyes to the modern victims of prior restraint: the American people and press.