Don’t Give Up The Ship

 Don’t Give Up The Ship

 

   The Navy motto “Don’t Give Up The Ship” dates back to the War of 1812, and has ever since been associated with heroic captains fighting against the odds. However, in my case, I gave up the ship. But let me explain…..

   In 1976 I was finishing a two year tour of duty as a staff officer for Admiral Stansfield Turner, and a highlight of my job was the International Naval Review on the 4th of July in New York harbor. This was called the greatest gathering of navies in the world; 50 warships from 22 nations and 200 tall-masted sailing ships to celebrate the 200th birthday of the United States. We had been working towards this event for close to a year and a large part of my job was being a traffic cop (such as getting an Israeli gunship anchored as far away as possible from an Egyptian frigate). So after the big birthday bash with no noticeable problems, my orders were to report to the destroyer USS POWER(DD839) as Executive Officer (the second in command). The POWER was one of only 4 U.S. Navy ships homeported in New York. We (meaning Donna, me and the kids) had been living in Norfolk, Virginia so we moved as soon as possible to military housing on Long Island and settled in.

   The POWER was one of 98 destroyers which were built at the end of World War II. In the 1960s those which were in condition were modernized and were expected to stay in condition for another 20 years. When I reported aboard the POWER it was in good condition, 29 years old, and expected to last at least another 10 years. 

   In the early 1970s the POWER was designated as a Naval Reserve training ship. The complete wartime crew of a destroyer was about 300, so that all the guns, radars, torpedoes, boilers, etc could be operated at once; but the reserve training ships had a nucleus crew of about 100. The nucleus crew was enough to sail the ship for short distances but could not operate in wartime conditions. So the typical schedule could have at least 200 reservists (called Weekend Warriors) who came aboard for one weekend a month plus a couple of weeks each year. In some cases we might have more reservists to train so that the ship could be in port for a few days then out to sea for a few days and repeat. I had been used to deploying at sea for about 6 months at a time; I was looking forward to being away from home just a few days at a time.

   After a few months on the POWER I had passed all the requirements to be the ship’s Captain. This turned out well because my boss had an opportunity for promotion - since I was qualified he moved on and turned over the POWER to me. For a while this was great. Since we were concentrating on training we, as a ship, were getting the highest scores for gunnery, communications, anti-submarine detection, etc. But meanwhile things were happening way above my pay grade.

    In 1971 Communist China had been accepted into the United Nations. The prior government had retreated from Mao Tse-tung’s forces to Taiwan. It was still known as the Republic of China, but it was obvious to the world that the government in Taiwan had no control at all over the Chinese mainland. The U.S. and other allies were helping to fortify Taiwan and by 1977 the U.S. offered to the Republic of China Navy one of our older destroyers. Naturally they chose the POWER. 

   By the summer of 1977 Captain Liu Chin-te, Republic of China Navy came to New York with a hand-picked crew of sailors. They came aboard the POWER and merged with our nucleus crew just as our Weekend Warriors had done. The senior Chinese sailors could speak some English, which was surely a requirement, and they had studied the operation manuals. Captain Liu and I shared the Captain’s quarters and he had studied all our capabilities and limitations to the point that he could have taken over the ship immediately. All through August and September going out to sea and coming back to port practically every few days. One of the most interesting memories is the food. One of our US Navy cooks was an Italian from Brooklyn and he got together with the senior Chinese cook. They took turns trying to out-do each other, and some of our meals were excellent but indescribable.

   Finally, on October 1 1977 the POWER was moored at Fort Schuyler, New York. We had a formal ceremony with Ambassador Konsin Shah, the Consol General of the Republic of China and other dignitaries. I marched my crew off the ship, struck the colors and decommissioned the POWER. Ambassador Shah commissioned the ship as the Republic of China Ship RCS Shen Yang, Captain Liu marched aboard with his crew and they literally sailed away.

   I told you I gave up the ship.

When I became a Schitsu'umsh Grandmother

  In 1965 we were living in Moscow, Idaho and we bought a small lot at Black Lake, about 90 miles north. It was undeveloped and beautiful, and we really had no plans for it in the near future other than occasionally picnicking and camping on it. In 1967 I was transferred to Newport, Rhode Island for Destroyer School and the next 15 years of my Navy career had me and my family bouncing back and forth from west coast to east coast. Every time my family and I were moving coast to coast we managed to stop at Black Lake for a couple of days to enjoy our little plot of land. When I retired in 1982 we decided to return to Moscow and I returned to school (at WSU) to work on a PhD in math. When I completed my degree I took a position teaching math at Lewis Clark State College (LCSC). The salary was in the lower range but my Navy retirement was enough to allow me to forego summer teaching and I could have enough time to start building a cabin on our lake property. As often as possible we could spend a week at the lake with about 3 days of cabin building and then a few days of fishing and swimming.

   Then at some time when we were getting permits and so on we discovered that our lot was on the Coeur d’Alene Reservation - we were at the south end of the lake and the reservation boundary was just about through the middle of the lake, a few hundred yards north of us. We never thought that we might be living on an Indian Reservation some day, but things have turned out very well. We own our little plot of land and we pay our property taxes to the county, but the Coeur d’Alene tribal government owns the water in the south end of the lake and they are the best possible stewards of the water. 

   About 30 or more years ago the Coeur d’Alene casino was beginning to make money, and I was impressed that the tribal government was using the money for health and education; tribal members could have their college costs paid for so long as they studied in areas such as teaching, law, engineering and so on. When I discovered that LCSC was looking for a Math Professor who would teach a course such as “Teaching Math in elementary school” for Coeur d’Alene tribal members, I was ready to try. I had three years teaching college level math at the Naval Academy in Annapolis and I had been been teaching the same level at LCSC for about five years, so why not go right down to elementary arithmetic? Of course I found out that even though the math itself was very easy, teaching it to young children was a whole other world! Anyway I took that job for a year.

    I was continuing to teach my college courses at LCSC, and I added a course which met at the tribal educational headquarters at DeSmet, which is very roughly halfway between the LCSC campus and Black Lake. We met twice a week, Wednesday evenings and Saturdays. The class had about 20 students; a few were typical college age but most were older, 40 or more. I learned much from the students: in a typical class for typical prospective teachers the “prof” would frequently ask a student to come to the blackboard to illustrate how to solve a problem. Of course it was important for that student to learn how to address the class because before very long he or she could be the teacher. The typical prospective teachers would very often suffer from stage fright at first, but before long they become more comfortable in front of the class. But these Coeur d’Alene students were different. They clearly did not want to stand in front and to appear to know more than their colleagues, and the class would then become a bit tense. 

   As soon as I had a chance to discuss this situation with other professors who had much more experience, I learned from them that the tribal members, from very young, would never hold themselves above their colleagues. But when I changed the classroom seating so that there were about 4 or 5 tables with 4 or 5 students randomly assigned to each table - the class became more interesting and lively. I would assign a problem for each table to work on. Then each table would demonstrate to the class how they had solved the problem, and it was clear that there was friendly competition and a more lively classroom. 

   So the class was going along nicely. Each meeting was 2 hours, so about half way we would take a few minutes for a coffee break. One day a student came to class with a 2 year old in her arms and explained to me that this was her granddaughter and that she was taking care of the baby because her daughter was sick. She asked if it was possible for her to attend class with the baby, so I told her yes, but only if the other students would not be bothered. I was also a new grandfather; our first grandchild was born in 1988 and was close enough to us that I had been learning how to play with 2 year olds. The baby was quiet until we took a coffee break and for some reason she was becoming fussy and loud. Many in the class consisted of women who had children or grandchildren of their own, so they began to pass the baby around. However nothing seemed to please her. I stood at the end of the line and took my turn at holding the baby. I gave her a piece of chalk and held her up to the blackboard, and she started scribbling with the chalk. She was delighted and had a great time, and after a few minutes I gave her back to her grandmother where she settled down.

   At the end of the class the students got together as I was gathering up my papers and so on, and they had something to say to me. They decided to appoint me an Honorary Schitsu’umsh Grandmother!

I graciously accepted: Schitsu’umsh is the name of the people who are called Coeur d’Alene, and that name was given them by the French traders in the 1700s. I am happy to think of them as Schitsu’umsh, but I or most other people cannot pronounce their proper name so I continue to call them Coeur d’Alenes.

Little Boy Lost (6)

 

Little Boy Lost (6)

     Last week I thought I had finished the story about my week lost in the Sierra Nevada, back in 1952. My mother had kept a box of newspaper clippings and photos of my emergence from the wilderness and even the remnants of my completely worn out shoes which had managed to stay on my feet until I returned to civilization. Of course I had known of this box, but I had not given it any thought until about 20 years ago when it came time for us to keep or dispose of my parents’ “stuff” after they had passed away. I saw that in the box were my old shoes and quite a few old newspapers, apparently all local (L.A. Times, L.A. Examiner, L. A. Mirror, Lynwood Press, San Francisco Chronicle) and I just glanced at them. Donna rearranged things so that the contents took up much less space and then they were put away for another 20 years. 

   A few weeks ago I decided to write about my lost week, and I thought that all I needed to do was that I had to refresh my memory, and then just think like my 12 year old self. I did refresh my memory somewhat, and I read a few of the newspaper clippings. I recall that I had been interviewed by the sheriff, and later at least one more reporter, and the results were reasonably good but there were errors both by me and by the newspapers. I had said that I had heard wolves, but certainly they were coyotes; I had said that I had been swept over a 20 foot cascade but later when I had looked closely at a topo map it must have been a drop of 8 to 10 feet at most. On the part of the newspapers many headlines said “...lost in the woods…” when I was usually above timberline with very few trees, and also many papers were reporting that I had lost hardly any weight. My weight on a pretty accurate scale my first day back in civilization was 163 pounds, but we may never know my weight the week before. For some reason which I have never known, many people thought I weighed 163 pounds when I became lost. A few weeks later at home I had been eating well and weighed 175 pounds and I think that is probably my weight when I started my trek. So losing about 2 pounds per day in tough conditions and fasting sounds about right. In any case the local doctor who examined me in Sonora on 17 August said I was in excellent shape. 

   So I had finished what I meant to write, and I was gathering up the newspaper clippings and preparing to put everything back in the box for the next 20 years. Then I noticed an envelope crammed with 39 more newspaper clippings from 39 more papers all dated on my 13th birthday August 18, 1952. They were all similar since they were based on the two interviews, but various papers emphasized various things - age, size, weather, terrain, physical condition. The papers were from various cities: Chattanooga, Des Moines, Tulsa, Newark, Houston, Mobile, Little Rock, Salt Lake, New Haven, Baton Rouge, Columbus,.......and of course New York (New York Times). Several of the articles were a little suspicious of several details: not many 12 year olds were 5’ 10” and about the heft of an adult, who had been fasting for a week and may not have lost weight and who was in excellent physical condition. I suppose that some of the reporters were wondering if the whole thing was a promotion of something to make money. Imagine: “Come take our High Sierra water diet for only $20 a day and after a week you’ll be better than ever!” I didn’t know at the time but my parents were aware of some suspicious reporters, even as strange as it might have been. So after about a week at home, as I was now 13 and ready to start high school, there were no more interviews and certainly there was no money involved. Within a very short time we didn’t worry about my adventure and I was entirely engaged in high school. It’s now been 73 years and I think it can now go to bed.

Little Boy Lost (5)

 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. 

 

Little Boy Lost (4)

 In the Emigrant Wilderness there are several creeks which begin in the high country and generally flow to the southwest. As I began my trek downstream to “civilization” I followed a stream which was no more than a foot or two deep and was running fast over rocks of every shape and size. The stream was cold and clear, and since I had no canteen I tried to stay close to my source of water. The terrain at first was open since it was above timberline, but as the elevation became lower it became harder to stay close to the stream. First, the stream occasionally merged with another stream and obviously grew in size. Second, trees and brush became thicker and made it difficult to walk and third the banks varied from flat to nearly vertical. There were times that the stream ran through steep canyons which allowed only two options: climb to the top of the bank, or wade in the water. There were times when neither option was appealing.

   Yesterday, on Saturday 9 August, I had realized I was lost and I had decided to head downstream. I had not gone far since I had not started until afternoon, but I recall the hiking was in open country and not difficult. On Sunday I had all day to hike and again I don’t recall any big problems. There was a faint trail along the creek which was apparently seldom used but it had been used by people, so I felt that I would eventually find civilization wherever and whatever it may be. The nights had been cold but above freezing, and now the morning sun was warm. I came to an old campsite which consisted of a campfire circle and a makeshift shelf on a tree, where there were a few very dried prunes or apricots. I ate them, although there was hardly any taste and it took a long time sucking them before they were chewable. A pleasant memory is of a large flat granite rock which was warmed by the sun and I remember basking in the sun for an hour or more. 

   I continued hiking on Sunday until late afternoon. The creek was beginning to grow as small feeder creeks merged, and the banks were becoming steeper and were littered with scree - rocks from higher on the canyon walls. Walking was becoming harder and I had literally worn holes in the soles of my shoes, so I searched before dark for a place to sleep for the night. Each night I slept in spurts which probably added up to a few hours, and during the day I often dozed for an hour or so, which kept me going. 

   At sunup on Monday I woke, drank water, and continued hiking downstream. The canyon walls became steeper and walking became more difficult. For the next several days my progress became slower and monotonous except for a few memorable events; and while I can remember the events I can’t remember the order in which they all occurred.

   More than once I climbed a canyon wall to get close enough to the ridgeline to hike downstream at a good pace. However I could not stay away from my water source for more than a few hours at most. One afternoon when I had been hiking along the ridgeline the canyon wall below had been getting steeper and hazardous, and as the sun was getting low, I had to decide whether to backtrack to get down to the creek or to go without water that night. I went without water that night and slept on a very narrow ledge not far above the canyon wall. 

   The next morning I don’t remember whether I climbed down the canyon wall or whether I hiked along the ridgeline until I came to a gentler slope, but I got to the creek as fast as I could. I drank my fill and I don’t remember whether I climbed back up to the high ground or whether I decided to wade downstream. In any case I certainly remember my adventure in the water.

   Probably after a couple of days of hiking back and forth from the creek to the top of the canyon wall, I decided to wade downstream in the creek. The water was cold and running fast and in most parts it seemed to be about waist deep. I started wading and within a few minutes I was swept off my feet. There was no way to swim even though occasionally there would be a deeper and calmer stretch, but then my feet would be bouncing off rocks again. I don’t know how long I was in the water but it’s likely that I travelled at least a mile through a steep ravine, and my ride stopped as I went over a small waterfall and landed on a flat rock. I climbed out of the creek and I was so sore that I thought I had broken some ribs. Later, when I had reached civilization and I claimed I had gone over a 20 foot waterfall, a doctor determined I had bruised ribs - later I thought a bit more clearly and I reduced the height of the waterfall to 10 feet.

   Toward the end of the week the canyon walls were becoming lower and the country was more open. I came to another campsite which likely had been used earlier in the summer. Left behind were a pair of trousers and a small steel mirror, which had been forgotten or perhaps left for the next trip. In any case both items were ideal - my own trousers were entirely torn and worn out and while the others had been well worn they were my size! And an occasional airplane flew overhead, so I could try to signal a plane with a mirror. While I didn’t get the mirror flashed to a plane at least I had a pair of decent trousers.

   By about Friday 15 August I was beginning to be a little goofy. I remember some odd feelings or perhaps unnatural sounds, and in one case I recall that I felt fear out of the blue, apparently for no reason. But these all disappeared when I stumbled back into civilization - when this story is completed.

Little Boy Lost (3)

 I awoke at sunrise and was alert enough to realize that I was still lost. I’m trying to understand my 12 year old self, and believe that he did not panic but certainly felt anxiety. He (or I) was certainly not sure what to do. For some reason I think that I had read somewhere that following downstream would get to civilization eventually. It may be true but in my situation yesterday I had hiked 3 or 4 hours on the wrong trails and had more or less traveled in circles. I had slept where I ended, and it was likely that I was no more than a mile or two from the scout camp. I didn’t know which direction, but I could see a creek a few hundred yards away. Since I had not brought my canteen I was thirsty and went to the creek; the water was clear and thankfully pure. And here I made my decision to follow the creek downstream.

   Thinking back 73 years I believe now that I made the wrong decision. Since I was near a source of good water and I was probably a couple of miles from the scout camp, I could have found a comfortable place to sit and wait for the other scouts to find me; even if I had to sit and wait for a day or two.

   Ah, well! When I had hiked 40 or 50 miles and walked out of the wilderness a week later there were numerous newspaper articles and interviews which emphasized the rugged trek, and I found no mention of the fact that it would have been easier on me, my traumatized parents, and the many other searchers if I had simply sat and waited.

   So, about noon on Saturday, August 9, 1952 I started downstream following a small creek which I later learned was Cherry Creek. The night before I had laid my fishing gear down near where I slept, and I did not think about it until I had started my trek. At least it made some sense in not trying to carry it while scrambling over rocks and through brush. Even if I had caught a fish I had no way to cook it, since the few matches in my pocket were damp and would not strike. (It was years later when I ate raw fish - sashimi - in Japan. I didn’t like it).

   So the trek began, with no food, only creek water, jeans, an old shirt and a light jacket, and almost worn out loafers and a boy scout knife.

Little Boy Lost (2)

 The Emigrant Wilderness is an area bounded on the south by Yosemite National Park, roughly 25 miles northeast-southwest and 15 miles east-west dominated by volcanic ridges and peaks. Granite outcroppings are interspersed with small lakes and meadows. Much of the area varies between 7000 to 9000 feet elevation. The Miwok and Paiute peoples hunted the area during the summer and early autumns. When the Gold Rush began in 1848 large numbers of prospectors and settlers came through the High Sierra, but it was not until 1852 that a trail was blazed through this region. The Clark-Skidmore party formed from Ohio and Indiana with 75 people and 13 mule wagons. It took them 35 days to cross what is now the Emigrant Wilderness and so many gave up or deserted that only 15 people were left. After this, there were better and easier trails so that the area was seldom used.

   In 1931 the Forest Service designated this region the Emigrant Basin Primitive Area and in 1975 it was renamed the Emigrant Wilderness. In exactly 100 years after the 1852 Clark-Skidmore party, in 1952 one 12 year old Boy Scout got lost and made it through the area in 7 days. 

   In the previous chapter, one other scout and I had joined the other scouts about four days later, and the two of us had hiked about four hours around sundown to get to the camp. The next morning several of us went fishing in three or four “good fishing holes” a couple of miles away from camp. The fishing was slow and by mid-day the others all decided to go back to camp. I wanted to keep on fishing, and being all young boys none of us thought that it was important that I had just arrived and hadn’t paid any attention to which was the way to go back to camp. So I continued fishing by myself until late afternoon. I started back (I thought) on a trail which would take me back to camp. This was not a populated area but there were several trails - all of which were lightly used; some crossed each other and others just petered out. The trail I was following took me perhaps 1 or 2 miles in a rough circle which brought me back to where I had been fishing. So I took the nearest other trail which petered out after an hour, and it was beginning to get dark. It occurred to me that I was lost.

   It’s a good time to consider my “stuff”. It was 1952 and there wasn’t a lot of hiking gear available. I had a floppy brimmed hat, jeans, an old shirt, a light weight jacket, and a pair of old loafers. In my pockets I had a scout knife, a few matches and a handkerchief, and I was carrying my fishing gear: a cheap spinning rod, some leader and a few spinners. If I had been a good scout I would have carried a map and a compass, but I did not have a compass. I may have had a map but I don’t remember it and even if I had, I didn’t have a reference point on the map. And it turned out that one of my few important things was a canteen which I had left in my tent along with my sleeping bag.