Great Smokey Mountains, 1937. Clem Enloe, 84, let a photographer take her picture in exchange for a box of snuff. She refused to observe the park’s fishing regulations & fished year-round. She would snap, "Are you a little Park man or a big Park man?" Without waiting for an answer, she’d continue, "big Park man or little Park man, you son of a bitch, I fish when I please, winter or summer. See that can of worms?" (which were then forbidden in the park).
We live, we die, and like the grass and trees, renew ourselves from the soft clouds of the grave. Stones crumble and decay, faiths grow old and they are forgotten but new beliefs are born. The faith of the villages is dust now...but it will grow again....like the trees. May serenity circle on silent wings and catch the whisper of the winds. —Chief Joseph, Nez Pérce