Tennessee

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.
Peter Yarrow

In the summer of '67 I was 19 years old and taking a break between semesters of pre-med at Louisiana State University. It was a time of great upheaval, personal and otherwise. I had abruptly switched majors from engineering to medicine. The switch was dramatic, even careless. My engineer father was not happy. The nation was divided and cities were burning (1,300 buildings in one night in Detroit) over civil rights and Vietnam. It was a pinnacle year in that great social revolution referred to today as "the Sixties," which also included hippies, the "pill," and sexual liberation, among other things. Peter, Paul and Mary sang Dylan's Blowin' In the Wind and we were hell bent to land a man on the moon, as if the fires of social change needed fanning. Out of all this energy grew a new awareness, that the planet was increasingly threatened by a single species, Homo sapiens. That would be us.

That summer , amid all the turmoil, I left the safety of my cocoon in south Louisiana for the first time. My only intent was to explore and I had a fortnight to do it. So with a new car and camera, and a hankering to see new worlds, especially of topographical diversity, I headed due north, destination Smoky Mountains. By the end of day one the flatlands of my youth had faded in the rear view mirror and the earth was beginning to buckle a bit.

On day two I meandered for hours beside a chuckling stream, somewhere between Lookout Mountain and the Great Smokies, nestled in the blue hills and green dales of this hallelujah gloryland. The roads were gentle, undulating , two lanes only, the sort of lazy byways one would wish for to be lifted from Rock City to the Pearly Gates. Change was in the air.

The following days were welded seamlessly, as one peak experience was followed by another, and another. I worshipped in cathedral forests, waded clear mountain streams, and felt of cool, clammy rock. I hiked trails, picked berries in "balds," bagged a few peaks, and slept with stars and bears. And one day, in that sea of rocky tops, I gained the high ground, hoisted my camera, and snapped a photograph, another first for me. And from that moment on things would be different.

In the summer of '67 a physician-photographer was born.

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A dragon lives forever but not so little boys Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar. Peter Yarrow In the summer of '67 I was 19 years old and taking a break between semesters of pre-med at Louisiana State University. It was a time of great upheaval, personal and otherwise. I had abruptly switched majors from engineering to medicine. The switch was dramatic, even careless. My engineer father was not happy. The nation was divided and cities were burning (1,300 buildings in one night in Detroit) over civil rights and Vietnam. It was a pinnacle year in that great social revolution referred to today as "the Sixties," which also included hippies, the "pill," and sexual liberation, among other things. Peter, Paul and Mary sang Dylan's Blowin' In the Wind and we were hell bent to land a man on the moon, as if the fires of social change needed fanning. Out of all this energy grew a new awareness, that the planet was increasingly threatened by a single species, Homo sapiens. That would be us. That summer , amid all the turmoil, I left the safety of my cocoon in south Louisiana for the first time. My only intent was to explore and I had a fortnight to do it. So with a new car and camera, and a hankering to see new worlds, especially of topographical diversity, I headed due north, destination Smoky Mountains. By the end of day one the flatlands of my youth had faded in the rear view mirror and the earth was beginning to buckle a bit. On day two I meandered for hours beside a chuckling stream, somewhere between Lookout Mountain and the Great Smokies, nestled in the blue hills and green dales of this hallelujah gloryland. The roads were gentle, undulating , two lanes only, the sort of lazy byways one would wish for to be lifted from Rock City to the Pearly Gates. Change was in the air. The following days were welded seamlessly, as one peak experience was followed by another, and another. I worshipped in cathedral forests, waded clear mountain streams, and felt of cool, clammy rock. I hiked trails, picked berries in "balds," bagged a few peaks, and slept with stars and bears. And one day, in that sea of rocky tops, I gained the high ground, hoisted my camera, and snapped a photograph, another first for me. And from that moment on things would be different. In the summer of '67 a physician-photographer was born.

© Danny Kimberlin 2015