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I crouch under large pine trees lining a rutted red dirt road deep in the wilderness. Ever-increasing hail rains down from above. Grape-sized pieces ping off my hands clasped behind my head. I’m in ‘lightning position,’ an uncomfortable crouch that requires balancing on the balls of your feet and making yourself as small as possible. Part airline crash position, part protective tornado stance. Or sadistic yoga. It’s a hiker’s only defense against lightning when caught in a storm. My knees and hips, sore from carrying a 40-plus-pound backpack all afternoon, scream in protest. Flashes light up the ominous sky. Thunder rattles my eardrums. I pick up a handful of hail from the ground and use the ice to massage my aching joints. If I wasn't so terrified, I'd laugh. Absurdly, I'm here by choice, two days into what could be a 4 to 6-week backpacking trip. My first thru-hike. A thru-hike is a long, continuous backpacking trip from one point to another, often thousands of miles apart. The Colorado Trail, at “only” 491 miles, is considered a short thru-hike. Each day, a thru-hiker gets up, walks as far as they can, inhales thousands of calories, goes to bed as soon as the sun sets, then wakes up before dawn and does it all again. For weeks and months on end. We carry everything we need on our backs, only going into towns every 4 to 7 days when we need to resupply. Yes, this is my version of fun. Yes, it’s a bit like Wild. It’s my second day on the trail. After starting in Denver, Colorado, my ultimate goal is the town of Durango, almost 500 miles away. -- Earlier in the day, after exhaustedly dropping my pack outside a rural volunteer fire station, I twisted the spigot sticking out of the station’s wall. Cold, sweet water gushed out. I filled every water container in my pack, including ones I’d brought just for emergencies. The fire station was the last water source before a 14-mile dry stretch. There’d be no water for hours in any direction. The afternoon stretched on painfully as I shuffled slowly into the woods under the weight of my extra water. Storm clouds loomed, threatening to break open. By the time I found a place to camp, I was shaky with hunger. Before I could soothe my stomach, the clouds burst. A few drops of rain turned into a downpour, a thunderstorm, a ferocious lightning storm. Frantically, I threw my things in my tent and dove downhill to get away from the electricity-conducting rocks and metal in my campsite. Hail joined the onslaught falling from the sky. This is how I find myself hiding under the trees, a pitiful ball in a yellow rain slicker, crouched beneath the rage of the storm. Cars pull over on the dirt road behind me, trying to hide from the hail too. After a few minutes, I hear a shout above the storm. “Hey! Want to get in?” Stranger danger crosses my mind, but I don’t care—I’ll take my chances with ax murderers versus the lightning and rapidly-growing hail. Even inside the white pickup truck, the roaring staccato of bouncing hail prevents us from talking. But, I can look. Up front, I see two people, roughly my age. They don’t look like murderers. I don’t know it yet, but they will invite me to share their campsite. They will help me pack up my wet, dirt-covered things. They will serve me wine and warm food. They will introduce me to their friends and we’ll stay up late talking around a campfire. In the morning, they’ll feed me eggs and bacon and coffee. We’ll construct a hammock fort and climb all over each other and take silly pictures. They won’t complain about my stinky feet. I don’t know it yet, but we’ll stay in touch. There will be a brief romance. There will be months of friendship from this simple kindness on the side of a road. The trail, and most journeys, have a knack for providing exactly what we need. The trail taught me to trust that people are good. This night in the hail was the beginning.