The sky flashed white, and in a single instant, the whole herd dropped dead. So did their caretaker. Mike Morgan, a longtime Colorado rancher, was feeding his cattle at the time of the strike on Saturday, May 25, and did not survive. While these kinds of lightning-induced mass-casualty incidents are fairly common, the tragedy was the first of its kind in Colorado.

Morgan was standing in the back of a trailer, and the cattle had bunched around him to feed. The close proximity of the animals likely made them particularly vulnerable. Morgan’s wife was leading horses to the trailer at the time, while her father was driving the trailer’s tractor. Both individuals remained uninjured.

George Crocket, a local coroner, that it was the worst lightning strike he’d ever seen in the area. “I’ve seen horses get killed, but it’s usually one at a time,” he said.

How Can a Single Bolt Take So Many Lives? 

This isn’t the first time a lightning strike has instantaneously dropped an entire herd. In fact, lightning accounts for about 80 percent of accidental livestock deaths, according to USDA data.

“It is not unusual to have a large group of animals felled by lightning,” Steven Clark, the president of the Lightning Data Center at Lakewood’s St. Anthony Hospital, said in a . “More often than not, it will be a ground current. In other words, the lightning will hit an object on earth, and the current will flow through the ground and kill the animals.”

Ground currents happen when lightning strikes the landscape and then continues to travel along the surface of the earth. Since human and animal bodies conduct electricity better than soil does, lightning tends to travel through their bodies instead of the ground whenever possible.

Farm animals like cows are among the likely to be affected. For one thing, they’re four-legged. That orientation means a current can travel through the ground, up the creature’s forelegs, and down its rear legs. Along the way, the electrical current must pass through the animal’s heart.

Cows also tend to huddle together, which increases the chances that a bolt of lightning flowing through ground will be able to before the electrical charge has time to disperse and weaken.

Lightning-induced livestock deaths aren’t always reported. But reports that do come in usually include 10 to 30 animals. Sometimes, cases are even more extreme. In 2016, a herd of more than likely lost their lives to lightning in Norway. Since lightning generally strikes the earth as opposed to a specific target, ground current was the likely cause.

What’s the Takeaway for Hikers? 

Agricultural workers—including ranchers, migrant workers, and fieldworkers—are more vulnerable to lightning than almost any other population on the planet. This is especially true in areas of the world where there’s little to no shelter from storms. While the Colorado incident is a sobering reminder of the dangers farm workers face, it also bears some important takeaways for outdoor recreationists.

Hikers are often told they’re safe from lightning as long as they’re not standing on a ridgeline. That’s one of many . This strike took place on flat ground—a reminder that nowhere outdoors is entirely risk-free during a storm. The strike also happened on a summer afternoon—a time notorious for thunderstorms in the Rockies. This critical 12:00 pm to 4:00 pm window is when of injurious lightning strikes happen in Colorado.

The other takeaway is the danger of ground strikes as opposed to direct strikes. In this case, the bolt probably didn’t come down on Morgan’s head. Instead, a ground current was the likely culprit of the deaths. Ground currents are hard to predict or control, and yet they’re responsible for of lightning deaths and injuries. So, just because you’re not standing next to a tall object, doesn’t mean you’re safe.

Lightning strikes only kill about 10 percent of the people they hit. Still, often comes with its own challenges. So, if you hear or see a storm coming, do your best to get out of the open and under tree cover as soon as possible. And remember, the only way to guarantee safety is by taking cover in a hard-sided building or a vehicle.

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It’s high noon in Santa Clarita when I bury my face into the side of a cow, who is lying on the ground. His fur is rich brown, the color of fertile soil, and it’s silkier than I expected. I nuzzle my cheek against the animal and breathe deep. He smells sweet, like fresh hay, and musky. When I open my arms wide and grip the cow in an embrace, he shifts slightly, then eases into the weight of my body. He’s holding me as much as I’m holding him.

This is cow hugging therapy, one of several animal-assisted therapies offered by the , an animal sanctuary with locations in Southern California, Tennessee, and Missouri.

I realize this sounds like a joke. ( It was udderly ridiculous how many punny text messages my friends sent about this.) But I arrived at cow hugging from a sincere place—it might seem like a strange place to arrive for therapy, but after spending the past few years in a wrestling match with my own wellbeing, I was willing to try anything.

It started when I awoke in the middle of the night, my skin clammy and slick with cold sweat. My left arm was numb. My chest felt tight, as if someone was squeezing me in a bear hug I didn’t want. Since I have a family history of heart disease, I drove myself directly to the ER, where I was admitted for having a possible cardiac event. Two days, many scans, and a massive hospital bill later, doctors couldn’t find a single thing wrong with my heart.

But if that wasn’t a heart attack, why was my heart beating so wildly? I wondered. Why did I want to pop out of my skin?

Nobody at the hospital ever broached the topic of mental health. It was my friends—those who have grappled with panic attacks themselves—who suggested that anxiety might be the root of my problem.

I’ve probably always struggled with some level of anxiety, but I can say with certainty that the pandemic—and the related loss and grief—exacerbated it. So ever since I ended up at the ER, I’ve done my best to manage with meditation, yoga, journaling, medication, and talking to my doctor, but there’s still a low, anxious thrum that vibrates through me. That’s what I’m trying to squelch.

Now I press my chest against a cow named Mercy. He’s massive, which should be intimidating, but his sturdiness offers stability and comfort. He immediately licks my hand and nuzzles his snout on my hip. I think he chews on my sweatshirt a little.

As I hug Mercy, my right ear presses against his side, and I can hear his heartbeat, which is slower than my own. Generally, my resting heart rate is around 70 bpm, but a cow’s heart rate ranges from 48 to 84. After a moment, my pulse slows to meet Mercy’s. The muscle inside my chest beats rhythmic, steady, I’d even say relaxed.

For the first time in recent memory, I am calm.

Saving Animals, Saving People

My guide to cow hugging is Ellie Laks, the founder of the Gentle Barn, which she opened in 1999. (She’s married to co-founder Jay Weiner, who serves as president of the nonprofit.)

The six-acre property is located about 40 minutes outside of Los Angeles, surrounded by picturesque mountains and rolling green foothills dotted with farms. The Gentle Barn is home to an array of rehabilitated animals, like horses, goats, pigs, and turkeys, and it’s open to the public on Sundays, though reservations are necessary.

Before my hugging session began, Laks walked me through the spacious cow enclosure and introduced me to each animal. I had already met Mercy, who was rescued from a veal crate at a Texas cattle ranch. But there’s also Athena, a shy, black bovine with fuzzy ears, a rescue from a backyard butchery that was eventually shut down by animal control. Nudging an oversized playground ball around the yard was Faith, a dairy cow who went blind due to untreated conjunctivitis that she contracted before coming to live at the Gentle Barn. When Faith first arrived, she couldn’t walk in a straight line, she only turned around in circles.

“This has always been the heart of what we do,” Laks says. “We save the animals, and then the animals save us.”

Animals actually trigger a chemical reaction in humans, says psychologist Veronica Hlivnenko, a holistic health counselor at InPulse. “Tactile interaction with animals induces the production of oxytocin—the chemical that promotes soothing effects, thanks to its anxiolytic properties and ability to reduce the body’s cortisol response to stress,” she says. “Oxytocin acts like a neurotransmitter, meaning that when you‘re petting an animal, it messengers the brain to decrease the release of cortisol, alleviating the symptoms of stress and anxiety, promoting calmness and relaxation, and inducing a sense of safety and comfort.”

Oxytocin is also known as the “hugging” or “cuddling” hormone, and our brain associates it with things like a loving touch and meaningful relationships. The production of this chemical inspires long-lasting positive emotional responses, which boosts our pleasure, joy, and sense of reward. All of this leads to greater levels of happiness and contentment.

As part of its mission, the Gentle Barn works with organizations for inner-city or at-risk youth, and children with special needs. That’s why a significant part of the animal-assisted therapy program is rooted in sharing the animals’ stories of abuse, neglect, abandonment, loneliness, and recovery.

“To know that these animals also carry their own stories of resilience, it makes people feel less alone,” Laks says. “You know that if this animal can survive horrific conditions and thrive, so can you.

“Many of these kids aren’t going to sit on a couch and talk to someone about their feelings, their experiences, or their trauma. But something magical happens when an animal holds you with their warmth and nurturing. It’s like a big mom hug.”

Holy Cow

After cuddling Mercy, I spend time with Holy Cow, who arrived at the Gentle Barn as a sickly dairy calf with significant spinal injuries. Now rehabilitated through chiropractic and veterinary treatments, this affectionate cow serves as the matriarch for the makeshift clan.

Cradling Holy Cow in the warmth of the afternoon sun, my constant thrum of worry seems to dissipate, like soap bubbles popping. I don’t totally understand why this is working for me or why it feels like the most peaceful meditation I’ve ever done, but Laks has a few ideas.

“Cow hugging therapy has been especially instrumental in coping with grief,” Laks says. “Traditional therapy works by talking about your feelings. But there’s nothing to talk about with grief that allows it to be processed. It’s simply pain. So it’s helpful to be in a place where no words are needed, where you’re just open and emotionally connecting to another being.”

This is another way that animals help us, Hlivnenko says. They foster mindfulness and improve our own sense of meaningfulness. “The calming and soothing effect of petting an animal can bring your mind into a meditative state, promoting contemplation, consciousness, and reflection,” she says. “Besides, animals encourage us to be our authentic selves, thus deepening our self-awareness and appreciation.”

In the wake of COVID, Laks opened the Gentle Barn’s animal-assisted therapies to make them more accessible to adults and the general public. That means these programs are no longer exclusively for underserved youth; anyone seeking a session can make a donation and spend time with the animals.

“As a society, I believe we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of our grief and trauma from what we’ve just gone through. We don’t have the words yet,” she said. “But connecting with these gentle giants, it helps.”

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