The sun was just rising over the Iowa plains when I saw them—two figures walking slowly along the shoulder of the highway. Each carried a heavy backpack and a rolled-up bedroll. The woman’s gray-streaked hair was pulled neatly back despite the wind. The man’s oversized jacket flapped against his thin frame. Their faces were worn, yet there was a quiet dignity in their steps that caught my attention.
I slowed, stopped, and opened the door.
“It’s no time to be hiking,” I said. “Get in.”
They tossed their packs and bedding into the back of my small station wagon. The man helped the woman into the rear seat, then climbed in beside me, still shivering from the cold.
For nearly ten miles we drove in silence. Then they began to talk.
He’d been a truck driver in Texas but had lost his job. He’d seen an ad for work in Minnesota, so he and his wife hitchhiked north—only to find the position already taken. Now they were heading back to South Texas, hoping for better luck.
It was the early 1980s. The recession had left thousands adrift, their livelihoods gone with the factories and freight.
“I’m going to Wichita,” I told them. “That’s halfway to Texas. I can take you that far. But first I need to make a short stop in a town about twenty miles off the highway to see a friend. If you’re willing to wait an hour or so, I’ll take you farther afterward.”
The woman nodded, then asked, “Are you from India?”
“Yes,” I said.
Then came the usual questions: Where in India? What language do you speak? What’s your religion? Is your wife also from India?
I smiled politely but was too tired for conversation.
To change the subject, I asked, “Ma’am, do you know anything about grapes?”
She smiled. “Certainly. What would you like to know?”
“Anything,” I said. “Tell me anything about grapes.”
I expected a few casual remarks—but she began to speak with quiet authority about grape varieties, the soils they loved, sugar content, fertilizers, climates, markets, and how to protect vines from wind damage. It was as if she had received a PhD studying grapes her entire life.
How could a hitchhiker, wandering the highways, know so much about grapes?
She talked almost the entire way to my friend’s town.
When we arrived, I gave them a few dollars for coffee and pie and asked them to wait for me at a nearby café.
At my friend’s house, his wife told me her husband—a physician—was still at the clinic but would be home soon. She had lunch ready, and as we talked, time slipped away. Three hours passed before I remembered the couple waiting at the café.
I asked my friend’s wife to pack some food for the road. “Please make enough for three,” I said. She smiled and packed the goodies for me.
When I returned, they were still there, sitting near the door, glancing up each time it opened. The woman smiled when she saw me.
“I was afraid you might’ve left without us.”
“No chance,” I said.
Back on the road, I asked, “How did you know so much about grapes?”
She smiled softly. “I don’t know anything about grapes,” she said.
I stared at her. “But you told me everything.”
“Your Devtas told me.”
A chill ran through me. I knew that word—Devtas, the Hindu term for divine guides or angels.
“My what?” I asked.
“Your guides,” she said simply.
Then she added, “Would you like me to tell you what else your guides said?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I’m exhausted. Can your husband drive while you talk to my guides, and then tell me what they said when I wake up?”
Her husband smiled. “I wanted to offer earlier but wasn’t sure you’d agree.”
We switched seats. I leaned back and drifted off almost instantly.
When I woke an hour and a half later, I stretched and asked, “Well, what did my Devtas say?”
She smiled. “They said to shut up. They’ll talk to you directly when you wake up.”
I laughed. “All right then,” I said. “I’m awake. What do they have to say?”
“Would you like to know why you asked me about grapes?” she asked.
“That seems like a good place to start.”
“Because you didn’t want to talk,” she said gently. “But you didn’t want to be rude. So you asked a question that would make me talk instead.”
Her words hit like a bell. She was right.
Then she said, “Would you like to know why you came to visit your friends yesterday?”
I nodded slowly.
“Because your friends were having marital problems. They needed your presence. That’s why you went.”
I froze. She was right again. No one—not even my wife—knew the real reason for that trip.
“What do my guides say about them?” I asked.
“They’ll play their parts,” she said. “Then they’ll go their own ways. But your visit helped them both. It was necessary for all three of you.”
The hum of the tires faded. The car seemed suspended in stillness.
After a long pause, I asked, “If you know so much, why are you suffering in this cold? Why are you here?”
“When we didn’t get the jobs in Minnesota,” she said, “we understood why we were sent on this journey.”
“Why?”
“Your guides sent a message for you.”
I hesitated. “What is it?”
She spoke softly. “You must continue what you’ve started. Don’t give up. You’ll face many hardships, but help will come from unexpected places. Many people are waiting for you to succeed. Look to the North.”
Her words struck deep. My wife and I had given everything to the cause—our new social initiative, Trees for Life—and we were nearly out of strength.
We stopped by the roadside and shared the food my friend’s wife had packed. The air felt lighter afterward, as if something unseen had shifted.
When we reached my destination, I drove them to a shelter for the night. I gave them what money I had. They refused anything more—never asked my name, address, or phone number.
Our goodbyes were warm and lasting, as though we had known one another for lifetimes.
Even now—fifty years later—I still remember their joy.
For them, happiness meant one thing: the task completed, at any cost.
Postscript: The North Star
Early spring—perhaps three months later—I was in Chicago for meetings. Between appointments, I wandered into a small bookstore tucked along a quiet street.
Turning a corner between shelves, I nearly collided with a striking young black woman, well-dressed in her mid-twenties. She looked up, startled, then said softly, “Ah, you’re here.”
Before I could respond, she touched my shoulder and said, “You must not give up. You must continue. You must look to the North.”
And then she was gone.
Months later, while visiting friends in Kalamazoo, we were talking after dinner when my friend’s wife—whom I had just met that evening—set down her cup and said quietly, “Someone is telling me you must not give up. Many people are counting on you.” She didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to.
Sometime later, back in Wichita, I literally ran into a woman entering an office building. She stopped, looked at me for what felt like a long time, and said, “You are on the verge. People are beginning to know about you. Don’t give up. Keep going.” Then she pulled me aside to learn more about our work—and moments later made a generous donation. We remained good friends for a long time.
In building Trees for Life, my wife and I had given everything. Many times, we ran out of gas—in every sense of the word. Then, out of nowhere, funds arrived from cities to the north of Wichita.
Each time, I remembered the two hitchhikers—and the others who somehow found me—delivering the same message: You must not give up. Look to the North.
They became my North Star.
Even now, I sometimes wonder if they were real—flesh and bone, or something beyond.
I can comprehend only a small part of reality, but of one thing I am sure:
We are all connected.
And the North Star still burns bright for all of us.
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