By the time of the lightning strike, Knudsen had already suffered dozens of broken bones from breaking in horses and helping out on the ranch. In part, Knudsen was helped by his strong Christian faith – but, equally, he had confidence in his ability to recover. “I couldn’t read or write,” he says.Įven in his depleted state, Knudsen was determined not to put more strain than was necessary on his family. Knudsen’s memory had been almost entirely wiped, including his knowledge of how to perform basic skills. Some challenges, however, were immediate. Nearly a year later, when he was at the cinema, “I was eating some popcorn and all the fillings in my teeth fell out,” he says. More aftereffects took time to reveal themselves, such as fluid around Knudsen’s lungs. “Everything was just going fast, trying to reprogramme.” His hand felt as if it was on fire for months afterwards the spot on his head where the lightning made contact took years to heal. A brain scan revealed his cognition had also been affected. By the grace of God, I’m still here – because I shouldn’t be.” I never let myself get to a low point, ever – because once you’re down there, it’s a much longer ride to get back to the top And I …” Knudsen gives a one-shouldered shrug. The lightning had travelled down the arm in which Knudsen had been holding Hailey, but “thank God she was fine,” he says, fervent still. “There wasn’t that chapter in the book.”Īfter some back-and-forth, the family were eventually seen by someone with relevant expertise. “They didn’t know what to look for,” Knudsen recalls. A doctor gave the three of them a cursory checkup, but admitted she wasn’t sure what to do. It was touch and go as to whether they would make it to the hospital in Fredericksburg, Knudsen says – “it was bad it was so bad” – but they did. This small channel, about the same width as a thumb, carries a charge so intense that its temperature is 30,000C: five times hotter than the surface of the sun. As sharply as lightning might split the horizon, in fact a bolt is only 2-3cm wide. “Just totally fried.” The word is apposite. The trauma of the event was still catching up to them and, seeking to call a hospital, Knudsen tried to dial using his computer keyboard and not the nearby phone. Knudsen only knows what happened next from Tracy’s retelling. “It just went south really quick after that.” The upper half of his face was solid black, “from here up,” Knudsen gestures to the bridge of his nose. His head and hand felt as if they were burning: “I couldn’t do anything.” But he only realised something was seriously wrong when he saw Tracy’s horrified expression. “She wouldn’t have left me … but I said: ‘I’m fine’,” Knudsen says.“We were trying to celebrate Hailey, to be good parents.”īy the time Tracy got home, an hour or so later, Knudsen hadn’t moved. Though her ears were ringing and her eyes smarting, Tracy left to go to pick up Hailey’s birthday cake from town, a half-hour drive away. ‘By the grace of God, I’m still here – because I shouldn’t be’ … Scott Knudsen. “I’m not trying to be a macho cowboy or anything – I just thought we were going to be fine, because I’ve had hard hits my whole life, doing what I do.” “You remember back in the old days, all those fuzzies and it would take a minute to reboot?” The three of them made their way back to the house, shell-shocked but apparently unharmed. But that afternoon, there was no sign, no time to take cover.Īfter the impact, his brain felt like an old TV that had been unplugged. Lightning strikes were a known danger: Knudsen had once seen a tree get hit, instantly killing the cows beneath it. Tracy was a “city girl”, he says, but Knudsen had grown up knowing how to read the land – how to watch the weather, which risks to take. Knudsen and his wife bought their ranch soon after learning she was pregnant with Hailey. Now 54 years old, he appears on a video call as the quintessential cowboy, wearing a white Stetson that accentuates his tan, in front of a wall covered with bridles and reins. Knudsen is a fifth-generation Texan, born and raised in Georgetown, 75 miles away from Fredericksburg, his closest city. In 15 years, from 2006 to 2021, 444 deaths from lightning were recorded across the entire US. Of those unlucky ones, the majority – almost 90% – survive. Nonetheless, the odds of being struck are slim: less than one in a million. In the US, about 40m lightning strikes hit the ground annually, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. In fact, lightning is one of nature’s most frequently occurring spectacles, with around 3m flashes globally every day – equating to 1.4bn strikes each year, or 44 strikes every second. ‘My wife went from one kid to two as I had to relearn how to read and write’ … Scott Knudsen with wife Tracy and daughter Hailey.
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