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The tiny desert strip of Julud is receding below the Caravan’s wheels, and I’m beginning to breathe a little easier. With its 2,000-foot elevation, a rough and almost indiscernible dirt runway that changes heading more than 10 degrees in its 750-meter length, a tall ridgeline close in to downwind and a mountain less than a half mile off the end of the strip, Julud is a dodgy place to take off and land, even without 95-degree temperatures and thunderstorm cells bearing down on the field.
