EXPLORE

摘要

Pressed against a boulder too small to protect me from the rain, I try to reassure myself: Each year, fewer than 100 Americans die from lightning strikes. It's as dark as under a raven's wing. I'm 25 miles from Lake Powell's houseboat scene, and I still can't see a single light. Every few minutes, a magnesium bolt leaps from the clouds, leaving afterimages on my eyes. Thunder chases lightning ever more closely-from the almost-instantaneous booms, I can tell the storm is milling straight overhead. I stretch my T-shirt like a miniskirt over my bare knees for a trace of warmth.