The fall was crisp and clean at the University and getting into the advanced photography class in my sophomore year, on the strength of my portfolio, gave me a sense of accomplishment and some trepidation.
This class was graded entirely upon your work, and not just the finished photograph. Student composition's were discussed and dissected, during the class times on Wednesday and Friday, to find the underlying reasons for the photo and the feelings that evolved into the shot. The technical aspects of the film were secondary, unless there were no photos developed.
We were free to add or remove photos, from the portfolio, until the final day of the class.
We were required to have 30 photos in our portfolio at the end of the grading period, all drawn from the area in a 30 mile radius of the campus. Our instructor was honest when he described why the class was so important to our development as artists and not just photographers.
The same assignment had been given to this class, for every grading period for ten years. 20 students per class, three grading periods each year and the math on the chalkboard showed that there were 600 photographers before me.
He said that everything in town had been photographed, and most things in the county had appeared in portfolios, over the years. A fresh perspective would guarantee a good grade.
I had gone on some trips in my VW bus out into the countryside, with other members of the class, to look for quality subject matter. I decided after a couple of weekends that I needed to go out on my own, so I would not be influenced by the other artists plans for each photograph.
I had been purposely avoiding the southeast area of the county, saving it for myself, because I had friends from the dorms that had moved out this way. My close friends, like me, valued their privacy, and our motto was, "Everybody's a cop!".
I started out on Friday, after dinner at the dining hall, for the far reaches of the 30 mile radius. Starting at the main campus I headed southeast, moving from the main roads, to the county roads and finally to the township roads, which were covered only with tar and loose gravel for a road surface. The clearance of the bus afforded me many opportunities to move onto the roads less traveled, and I had shot four rolls of 35 mm on a variety of subjects and varying light conditions.
I started back to the campus as dusk arrived, but after just getting back into the county I ran out of gas . I coasted the VW down the long incline from Sandstone Ridge down to the bottom of Bear Wallow Hollow. The energy of the VW expired at the bottom, and the opening in the thick brush showed a driveway that headed up the hillside and disappeared into the thickening forest.
I wasn't able to even develop a plan of action, before a green pickup truck rolled up behind the bus, with three passengers crowded into the front.
The driver was a black man, dark and handsome. He had deep brown eyes and a short afro, a wide flat nose with flaring nostrils, lovely full lips that opened to show gleaming teeth and a bright happy smile. He was physically handsome, too, although only my height when he exited the truck. Shirtless, the lines of his muscles were defined in his blackness and the tan cotton slacks ended in sensible hiking boots.
A blond woman, about my age and size, was sitting next to him, wearing a bright green halter top that held her ample bosom in check and a loose fitting blue jeans dress, made from an old pair of Levi's opened in the middle and connected to form a dress, that buttoned down the front, and was opened a long way up her creamy white thigh. She reminded me of Mammy Yokum with her knee-high hiking boots.
The guy on the passenger side was big. He had wild shoulder-length hair that cascaded onto broad sun-burned shoulders. He had big arms, shirtless also, but his skin color did not add definition to his physique and I would learn that he was much stronger than he looked. He was wearing ragged cutoff shorts, that were an inch too short when he was sitting, and had good hiking boots on his big feet.
Everyone but the black man stayed in the truck, while he approached me, and the VW.
He introduced himself as Alan, and asked me what the problem was. I admitted I had run out of gas and could use a little help. Turning toward the truck, he introduced the blond as his lady Cindy, and the big guy he called Tarzan. I laughed and said, "Lord of the Jungle?".
Alan said, "Not really, his name is Ashley, but he can do the Tarzan yell just like Johnny Weismuller. So we started calling him Tarzan this last summer."
