By Friday (15 August 1952) I had been alone all week, traveling a few miles downstream each day with no food and no communications with the outside world. I recall that my feelings were essentially numb - and I didn’t feel any panic except during my hour or so when I was swept down the river until my water excursion ended with a thud when I was washed over a small waterfall. Otherwise I was in the mood taking a step at a time without much thought. I do remember trying to bargain with God: I grew up in the Church of Christ and attended Sunday School regularly. In my position I would have been expected to pray, which I did. But at one point it wasn’t clear that I would get back to civilization, and I offered God that if He would forgive my sins and arrange to get me home , I would be very, very good. Of course I was only 12 and I didn’t have any exciting sins to be forgiven.
But by Friday the river was running through more and more open country, and walking along the river was becoming easier. By Saturday I was in gentle country and I was beginning to sense that I may be getting close to civilization. By that afternoon I heard several shots ahead and my first response that I should hide, or at least be very cautious. I remember feeling for some reason that someone was after me for some bad reason! It was irrational but I still remember the feeling. Looking back, I think that I had reached the end of my rational approach to civilization. I continued to sneak carefully towards the shooting until I could see a small group of men taking turns shooting a pistol at tin cans. I yelled Hello and waved my hands and one of the men said “Are you Brent Bradberry?”
It was very strange to hear my name called by strangers. There were three men who had hiked several miles from a trailhead where their car was parked, and they had intended to spend the weekend fishing. They told me that there was a mammoth search going on for me. They gave me a salami sandwich and took me with them back to the car; it took about 5 hours (I’m sure that I was holding them back, but they were taking good care of me). I recall the car - a 1937 Plymouth sedan. The four of us climbed into the car and headed for Sonora, the largest city in Tuolumne County and the county seat (population about 2000 those days). We made a couple of stops along the way, the nearest ranger station and the Sheriff’s office. In those days before cell phones communications were often difficult - in particular my Dad was with a search party in rough country and it took several hours to get in touch with Dad. I have a recollection of time but I suspect we were very late getting to Sonora. I remember getting a hamburger there and being met by my Aunt Voleta and her husband Jack who had been backup for Dad. Voleta was my Mother’s slightly older sister and she was the most colorful and fun of all my 8 aunts. In those days long distance calls were somewhat complicated and Voleta set up a call to Mother who had stayed at home taking care of my two little brothers. I am hospital bed.
Next morning Dad was with me when I woke up. He was ready to take me home but even with him ready, things were hectic. There were at least 2 or 3 reporters waiting to interview me, so it was probably a couple of hours before we could get into the family car and head for home. I think I slept all the way home.
Physically I was in good shape; our family doctor “sentenced me” to several days of rest and a bland diet, and I was pretty much physically normal in about a week. But it was my parents who took charge getting me back to “all normal”. The newspapers around the country had my picture and headlines about how I had survived. There was a lull in the Korean War and evidently I was otherwise the biggest show. I remember one incident in particular: Lou Costello (of Abott and Costello) wanted me to be on his weekly show, and my Dad said “No” politely. Costello was persistent but Dad was clear that my being some type of Super Survivor was not good for me. Evidently Costello was persuaded and everyone ended on good terms. There were others who were interested in me for an appearance on a show or at some church affair but my parents wanted me to be a perfectly normal teenager (I had turned 13 one day after I got home) and at first I thought that it could be really cool to be famous. But I was excited about starting High School (9th grade) in a few weeks and my week of “fame” quickly faded.
For the next 40 or more years I had some memories of my Lost Week, but I didn’t think much about it. Then there came a time when we needed to move my parents to live with us. As we packed their belongings I found that Mother had collected a library of newspaper headlines, articles and photos about my week in the wilderness. She even saved the shoes which I had worn out completely. So I am now the keeper of the stuff and I will try to find someone who might want to be the next curator of the Brent Bradberry wilderness museum.
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