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Journalists tout themselves as dispassionate observers -- seasoned professionals uniquely able to chronicle society's triumphs and ills.

Try that posture during a riot.

Clyde Hughes of The Toledo Blade did, and found the experience among the most challenging of his career.

The scene involved Toledo police lobbing tear gas and wooden pellets, Neo Nazis angered because their march was canceled, and agitated citizens throwing rocks.

"In a situation like that, it's tough to remain the reporter," Hughes commented later in a phone and e-mail interview.

So he didn't.

Hughes adopted personas as the story unfolded.

First and foremost, he was a reporter -- as his later pieces show.

But during the October riot, Hughes also became an older black man who attempted in vain to dissuade younger black people from burning down a local business.

He was an alarmed colleague who saw a photographer attacked for her cameras.

He was a good citizen who turned other drivers away from the dangerous area.

And, he was a man watching out for his own safety.

"In 22 years of being in the business, there is nothing else that I can compare it to," said Hughes, urban affairs reporter for The Blade.

The riot occurred after the National Socialist Movement announced it would march in North Toledo. The group believed black gang members had been harassing white residents.

Less than two dozen Nazis showed up. But the number of local citizens -- some simply curious, others planning counter-protests -- swelled from 200 to 500 people within an hour.

Police canceled the Neo-Nazi protest, but it was too late.

"In 22 years of being in the business, there is nothing else that I can compare it to," said Clyde Hughes, urban affairs reporter for The Toldeo Blade."There is a lot of bad history between African-American males and the police in North Toledo and they thought it was better to fight the police than the Nazis anyway. It was something I don't think the police picked up on until it was too late. They figured, 'We'll call off the march and people will go home,' but what they found was a large group of people who found a new enemy in the force that was protecting the Nazis. Now, we know that the police needed to be out there and the Nazis needed this protection, but the symbolism of a mostly white police force protecting a handful of Nazis screaming 'white power' and 'n----- go home' just inflamed the crowd.' "

The crowd began picking up rocks and throwing them at police and any cars entering the area.

"It was one of those situations where you have instincts as a reporter, and instincts as a human being," Hughes said. "There are times when you are not thinking of stories, you are thinking of people's safety."

Hughes began warning approaching drivers.

"We would tell them to turn around. 'You do not want to come through here,' " he said.

At one point, Hughes also ran "like a sissy trying to get to the other corner," he said.

He laughs about that image, but is somber remembering what happened to two co-workers.

"The worse part of it was seeing our photographer Jetta Fraser, a member of our local NABJ chapter, assaulted by two punks; [they] couldn't have been more than 15 years old. They both grabbed her by the arms, and pulled in opposite directions trying to take her cameras."

Another photographer got a black eye and a reporter had a cell phone stolen while conducting an interview.

"There were times when I was in the mist of the crowd and found I was the only one who didn't have a rock in my hand. I almost felt out of place," Hughes wrote on a Poynter Institute listserv conversation.

Hughes grabbed people running by with rocks in their hands, attempting interviews.

"I think some of those guys thought I was someone's grandfather or some pudgy guy from the neighborhood," he said.

Understandable thoughts, as Hughes also played the wise elder.

"I was across the street from the bar that was looted and eventually burned. The mayor and fire chief, who is from the neighborhood, went into the crowd [to make] a personal appeal but that was futile. When the building started to burn, I remembered yelling at one of the men running from the building telling him he just lost his leverage for whatever cause he was fighting for. He said, 'I don't care. They ain't gonna listen no way.' "

Eventually more than 120 people were arrested for rioting and the cost to taxpayers has been estimated to be at least $336,000 in overtime, vehicle damage and other expenses.

"All of my colleagues really did a tremendous job that day under some very trying circumstances," Hughes said. "I really felt proud to be a Blade reporter that day."

Hughes offers these suggestions to reporters who find themselves in similar circumstances.

• Safety exists in numbers. Never attempt to cover a riot alone. Hughes noted, "All it takes is one nut to incite other people." Working with others lessens the chances of being seen as an easy target.
• Communicate well with both editors back in the newsroom and other reporters also handling the coverage. Blade reporters on the streets were connected to a newsroom editor by cell phone. That editor kept everyone up-to-date on the whereabouts of all the reporters and also with what was happening at the scene overall.
• Trust your instincts. If you feel your safety is in jeopardy; leave. And don't feel guilty later about a decision to retreat from a scene like a riot. Hughes noted that most journalists have good judgment skills; a riot is not the time to second guess gut instincts.