The spring of 1970 was a welcome sight in Northern Wisconsin. It was April first and I had a bad case of the highway blues. At 17, I was living in Ashland, on the southern tip of Lake Superior, and attending my senior year of high school. Being a loner with only six weeks left of school, I thought about taking off with my pack sack and heading down Highway 13 to no particular place at all.

My cousin Martha came to visit me that day and we realized we both felt the same way. She was two years older than me and managed to stay free of any responsibility to family, friends or a job. So down the road we went. We hitchhiked the sixty miles back to Martha's house, where she hurriedly packed her most precious belongings.

Semi-trucks - that's how we'd travel across the country. They stop at neat places to eat, we could shower and there's no shortage of rides at a truck stop. We had everything figured out. Our rides with the locals ended after about 80 miles and when we got the first semi-truck to stop for us, we jumped in excited and unafraid.

We were more thrilled than during any time in our lives. Blessed with good looks, we dressed in hippie attire, with tiny flowers in our long brown hair, combat boots tied with a touch of black lace and wire rimmed glasses.

Just past the Arkansas line, we hopped a semi-truck that looked like all the other ones we'd experienced. After making small talk with the driver, we settled in and got comfortable. Everyone drifted into a quiet spell. Just the roar of the engine could be heard. The scenery was breathtaking. April Fool's Day was over and this was the real thing.

Our innocence was abruptly shattered when we heard people mumbling and rolling around way in the back of the closed trailer. My eyes met Martha's instantly. What are people doing back there? Are they prisoners trying to get free? Are we next?

Slowly moving his hand into his pocket, the driver pulled out a long knife and showed it to us nonchalantly as if it was a picture of his wife and kids. There was no concern in his eyes. He didn't point it at us. He just wanted to show us who was in control. But he knew his cover was blown by the poor souls in the back of the trailer.

My survival mode kicked in. We had to be cool and not panic. Small talk became ever so important in that instant. I had to make him think I didn't hear the people in the back if we wanted to somehow get out of the truck alive. After several miles, he seemed

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