Robert Kendrick: Mine Design, Planning and Supervision from High Mountain to Deep Jungle, 1950s-2000s

I was looking back over my original 2014 proposal for the The Global Mining and Materials Research Project, to which this new Bob Kendrick oral history is the latest addition. There was this passage about the project’s purpose: “to document expertise that can speak to the political, environmental, legal, social, and economic changes that surrounded mining exploration, permitting, production, processing, and remediation over the last thirty years.” This oral history is certainly about all of that, but it is also a life history in the fullest sense. The more proximate impetus for the interviews, as it too often is, was the narrator’s failing health.

In the lead-up to the interview sessions, Bob was concerned that he had not prepared enough, that he might not remember enough, or tell the stories well enough. But he was sure that he wanted to say some very specific things about his life experiences. We worked together with his wife of 65 years, Marian, and their sons Peter and Mike, to assemble material to frame the set of interviews that would be held in a western suburb of Phoenix. Marian and Bob then welcomed me into their home in February of this year for just two days and an afternoon. They had a dining room table covered with boxes of papers, photo albums, and artifacts, such as core samples from a gold mine, the hide of an anaconda and a stuffed piranha. For better or worse, I positioned two of Gary Prazen’s bronze sculptures of miners in the background behind Bob in the interview frame. All around the house were Marian’s paintings depicting beautiful scenes from some of their long sojourns in South America, Central Asia, Siberia, Canada, and all over the United States.

Bob and Marian did work all over the world, but one of the clear messages we get from a life history is the sense of origin, of place. There is a distinct mountain sensibility about this oral history. The place and time where Bob grew up, Leadville, CO in the 1930s and 40s, was a somewhat forbidding place, on a kind of vertical frontier, a sometimes dangerous place. Bob grew up with danger, but I suspect he also grew up with some variety of mountain culture. People did things up there that were difficult, sometimes because they had to, but sometimes precisely because they were difficult. Bob relished physical challenges, which perhaps prepared him for other kinds of challenges later in life.

Bob Kendrick as a young man in parade for 23-mile Burro Race over Mosquito Pass, 1951
Bob Kendrick, parade for 23-mile Burro Race over Mosquito Pass, 1951

There are parts of this oral history that are raw. There were stories that were difficult for Bob to recount, but that he wanted to tell nevertheless. These days, there is little talk about “character,” so little that I don’t know that we can easily define it anymore. When I heard Bob talk, still with a lot of grief after so many years, about what it’s like to tell a family that their loved one has been killed in the mine of which he was in charge, I thought I might have caught a glimpse. It occurs to me that these interviews were perhaps one more difficult thing he wanted to do. But this oral history is, to paraphrase Bob, also full of good things.

Bob is survived by his wife Marian, and his children Mike, Peter, Melissa, Rob, and Gina.

The Oral History Center wishes to thank the Freeport Foundation and Stanley Dempsey for their support of the Center and for making this oral history possible.

Oral history and the Second Golden Age of Radio?

A long while ago, my colleague Shanna Farrell told our group about one of her pet peeves, the overuse / misuse of the term “oral history” in the media. She is certainly right about the increased use of the term. A cursory search of the mass-media landscape includes some fun stories in Forbes on the week Wayne Gretzky hosted Saturday Night Live, in Billboard on the time Kanye West rushed the stage at the Video Music Awards, and in (New York Magazine) on a scene in Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, in which an actor narrowly avoids having a pencil pierce his eyeball.

Kanye West and Taylor Swift at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards

As I was looking at these pieces, it occurred to me that what journalists mean by “oral history” is simply a more extensive use of quotations and a lighter touch with the narrative. But it’s still, of course, journalism. These are “thick descriptions” of a moment in time, not the life histories oral historians usually do.

We in the profession of oral history, however, are at a bit of a messaging disadvantage. After all, mainstream journalism, even in the age of social media, is the ultimate mainline to the public. In fact, journalists still for the most part shape and define what we call “the public.”But do all of these examples constitute a misuse of the term “oral history?” The piece on The Dark Knight, for example, is nothing more than a series of quotations from people interviewed for the article. How different are these from the secondary outputs developed within the field of oral history, such as the Oral History Center’s own podcasts?

There is a real appetite for what oral historians do, and it’s growing. Part of me welcomes this misuse of so-called oral history, as long as we have the opportunity to correct misconceptions about our nuts-and-bolts work, i.e., the co-creation of more in-depth life histories, and to highlight the core fact of our privileging the voice and authority of the narrator over our own.

With our hectic, multitasking lives, punctuated by the forced downtime of gridlocked traffic and monotonous subway rides, we’re living in a strange second Golden Age of Radio. Archival oral history projects have a great shot at reaching these audiences of bored commuters, pensive gardeners, and late-night snugglers if we can broaden our notion of how to package and curate the wonderful materials we’ve helped to make with our narrators.

The Berkeley Remix Podcast, Season 4, Episode 2, “Berkeley Lightning: A Public University’s Role in the Rise of Silicon Valley”

“We’re used to hearing about how game-changing technology makes whole new ways of living and working possible. But what makes the game-changing technologies possible? We’re going to talk about Berkeley’s contribution in this domain, a bit upstream from the technology we all know.”

This season of the Berkeley Remix we’re bringing to life stories about our home — UC Berkeley — from our collection of thousands of oral histories. Please join us for our fourth season, Let There Be Light: 150 Years at UC Berkeley, inspired by the University’s motto, Fiat Lux. Our episodes this season explore issues of identity — where we’ve been, who we are now, the powerful impact Berkeley’s identity as a public institution has had on student and academic life, and the intertwined history of campus and community.

The three-episode season explores how housing has been on the front lines of the battle for student welfare throughout the University’s history; how UC Berkeley created a culture of innovation that made game-changing technologies possible; and how political activism on campus was a motivator for the farm-to-table food scene in the city of Berkeley. All episodes include audio from interviews from the Oral History Center of The Bancroft Library.

IC chip from Hewlett Packard 34C Calculator, designed with assistance by UC Berkeley computer scientist William M. Kahan
IC chip from Hewlett Packard 34C Calculator, 1979-83. Some of the calculator’s revolutionary features were designed by UC Berkeley computer scientist William M. Kahan

Episode 2, “Berkeley Lightning: A Public University’s Role in the Rise of Silicon Valley,” is about the contributions of UC Berkeley Engineering to the rise of the semiconductor industry in what became known as Silicon Valley in the 1960s and 70s. In contrast to the influential entrepreneurial spirit of a private university like Stanford, Berkeley’s status as a public institution had a different impact on Silicon Valley. We focus on the development of the first widely used design program for prototyping microchips. Originally designed by and for students, the software spread like lightning in part because Berkeley, as a public institution, made it available free of charge. The world has not been the same since.

This episode uses audio from the Oral History Center of The Bancroft Library, including interviews with  Paul R. Gray, Professor of Engineering Emeritus, Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science and Dr. Laurence Nagel, CEO of Omega Enterprises, former senior manager at Bell Laboratories, with a PhD from UC Berkeley EECS (oral history forthcoming).

“Berkeley Lightning” was produced, written, narrated, and edited by Oral History Center historian Paul Burnett.


The following is a written version of the The Berkeley Remix Podcast Season 4, Episode 2, “Berkeley Lightning: A Public University’s Role in the Rise of Silicon Valley. ”


Narration:  Silicon Valley. It’s a real place, the valley roughly encompassed by Santa Clara County at the southern end of San Francisco Bay. But it’s also a mythic place, with just the right combination of top universities, electronics firms, defense dollars, and a concentration of rare, plucky college-dropout geniuses who would go on to hatch world-changing technologies in suburban garages.

We want to take that apart a bit. The university that looms largest in nearly every story of the rise of Silicon Valley is near the heart of that actual valley, Stanford University. But about 30 miles north, on the eastern edge of the Bay, lies the University of California, Berkeley, a longstanding rival to Stanford, if football is your game.

Our story here focuses on this other university, a public, state university, that established institutions and teams to develop innovations that would make the culture of innovation possible. There are many different stories we could tell about Berkeley’s role in the rise of Silicon Valley, from specific technologies such as flash memory to digital-to-analog conversion, aka the hardware and software that make it possible for you to listen to me right now.

We’re used to hearing about how game-changing technology makes whole new ways of living and working possible. But what makes the game-changing technologies possible? We’re going to talk about Berkeley’s contribution in this domain, a bit upstream from the technology we all know.

The centerpiece of just about any discussion of Silicon Valley is the development of its namesake, the silicon microchip, a tiny wafer packed with an ever-growing number of all the components that make up an electronic circuit in this microscopic space, what comes to be called an integrated circuit. Chief among these components is the transistor. Transistors do many things, but among them is to act as a switch, which allows them to process digital information, zeros or ones, much more efficiently and cheaply than tube-based mainframe computers, the ones that used to fill up entire basements of office buildings. When the transistor was invented, the race was on to increase the density and number of transistors. There are a few reasons why you want to make these integrated circuits smaller and denser. For one thing, they work better and more efficiently. And, you can cram them into small spaces, such as at the tip of a missile, for example.

But imagine how tricky they are to make. Here is Berkeley engineering professor Paul Gray explaining the dimensions of the microchip.

Gray:   It was probably maybe fifty mils by a hundred mils. A mil is a thousandth of an inch. So that would be a tenth of an inch in one dimension and one-twentieth of an inch in the other dimension.

Narration: And here is Larry Nagel, who was a student at Berkeley’s microelectronics lab in the 1960s, on making chip prototypes.

Nagel: And being a little bit clumsy we had to make up for a couple of times when things got dropped and things got otherwise messed up. So I guess I was probably working maybe probably four weeks at that before I had a chip that actually worked.

Narration: Now this was not normal, routine work for an electrical engineering student in the 1960s. Just a handful of universities that had links the electronics industry and to military research had founded specialized microelectronics labs by the early 1960s.  Here’s Dr. Gray again:

Gray: Berkeley had started the country’s first laboratory in which you could fabricate an integrated circuit. And that was in the about ’63, ’64 timeframe…Don Pederson was the faculty member here who really spearheaded the establishment of that laboratory. In that era Stanford and MIT also were starting labs—I think Berkeley was the first and then Stanford and MIT, some a year or two or three later, also got on the same track. … Berkeley and Stanford and MIT continued for the next several decades as the main institutions with this fabrication capability. And we still have a big lab, fabrication facility over there in the CITRIS Building.

Narration: So, UC Berkeley was the first university in the country to have a microchip fabrication facility. But that’s just the beginning. You have to understand that making microchips, by hand, is hard, really hard, and time-consuming.

Nagel: Well, just to build the circuit alone would probably take a couple of days for a hundred transistors for a kit. Maybe for a twenty transistor circuit a day. So one or two days, something of that order of magnitude. But actually measuring and getting the thing to work right, debugging it, could take a good deal longer than that. That could take weeks.

Narration:  But from the time the microelectronics lab was founded until the end of the 1960s, the number of transistors on the same space on a chip went way up.

Gray:  We were building chips that had on the order of a hundred transistors on them. It’s very difficult to predict by building a physical breadboard or a prototype out of discrete components how a chip like that’s going to behave electrically. You really needed circuit simulation even at that point, a program that would simulate the electrical behavior of a circuit.

Narration: Now if a computer program could do the work of prototyping a circuit, you wouldn’t have to waste time building dud after dud. As a student at the University of Arizona, Paul Gray then learned about the work at Berkeley from his mentor, David Holland. And when Gray went off to work down in the valley at Fairchild Semiconductor, right around the time that Gordon Moore and others split off to found Intel, he recognized the importance of the work that Berkeley researchers were doing.

Gray:  I do remember having a lot of connections with universities in general, Berkeley and Stanford, on various topics in those years. Of course, we were in an industrial park created by Fred Terman, owned by Stanford. We were on their land. But I don’t remember having a sense of a Stanford dominance of the landscape in terms of university engagements. We had a lot of interaction with the Berkeley people because of the computer-aided design activity. Don and his group here at Berkeley were developing that kind of simulator. We needed that. So we got a connection going and we got one of the early versions of SPICE, I think it was called something else at that point, and used that.

Burnett:  CANCER, I think.

Gray:  Yes, correct.

Narration: SPICE? CANCER? These are strange if cool names for software, but this will be explained later. As a result of his reaching out to Berkeley to get a hold of this computer program called CANCER, Paul Gray was invited to Berkeley to teach for a year, and then joined the faculty, where he got the back story on what this software was all about.

First of all, Berkeley engineering was structured for this interaction between computing and electronics. At the time, only Berkeley and MIT had electrical engineering and computer science in the same department. Second, there was a leading light of the Electrical Engineering Department named Donald Pederson, who made computer-aided design a priority.

Gray:  Somewhere in the early sixties, Don had recognized this need for computer simulation. … back in those days you could still try out your design by building what they called a breadboard and you plugged discrete devices in and it    mimicked the chip, how the chip was going to behave. That was pretty ineffective anyway. But once you got bigger than a hundred transistors or so it became completely impossible to do that. Don recognized very early, the way things were going, it was going to be essential. And it was one of those early interdisciplinary things. To build an effective simulator of electronic circuits you have to have someone that knows devices and models the behavior of the transistors electrically. You have to have somebody that understands computer numerical analysis and how you actually solve differential equations on a computer on a large scale. And you have to have circuit people who understand what’s needed.

Narration:  The other piece of the story is the fact that UC Berkeley is an institution of higher education, and students need to be taught in an efficient manner. So Don Pederson asked Ron Rohrer to develop a graduate course where the challenge was to have the students build design software. Here’s Dr. Nagel again:

Nagel: But I would say actually the major emphasis of the simulation programs that were developed at Berkeley were more as teaching tools, so that students could actually get a first-hand—again, Don was an intuitive guy. By running circuits on a computer you could get an intuitive feel for how the circuit would work, something that would take hours and hours and hours if you were to do it in the lab. Because in one night you could build five different variations of some particular circuit, simulate it, and have your results of which variation worked the best. That would be hours and maybe days of laboratory work. By doing it on a computer the entire class—it was no longer just a graduate exercise. Undergraduates could also enjoy this thing.

Narration: But the first graduate class to get this program built was intense, to say the least.

Nagel: And, of course, Ron [Rohrer] came in the first day and said, “Well, for those of you who think this is going to be a course on circuit synthesis, you’re in for a shock because this is going to be a course on circuit simulation and you guys are going to learn all about circuit simulation by writing a circuit simulator. The judge for how well you do will be Don Pederson. If he likes the program that you write, you’ll all get As. If he doesn’t like the program you write, you’ll all fail.” Ron was a very brash guy. So immediately half the class turned white as a sheet and left the room and were gone. [laughter]

Narration: Building on a number of earlier versions, Larry Nagel’s CANCER program was the result of that class, [computer analysis of non-linear circuits, excluding radiation]. Here’s Larry Nagel explaining the significance:

Nagel:  “CANCER: Computer Analysis on Non–Linear Circuits…Excluding Radiation!” Because we were very proud of the fact that we’d developed this program with no money from the government at a time when the government was heavily funding research into radiation effects on circuits…

[background audio of student protests, chanting]

…because we were at the time very much worried about some kind of a nuclear event disabling our missiles. … So that’s how we got the “excluding radiation,” because we weren’t doing radiation. We were Berkeley at the time, right? This was Berkeley. This was not MIT. This was Berkeley. So that’s how CANCER got started.

Narration:  So, you had institutional innovations, a microelectronics lab and a teaching approach that focused on computer-aided circuit design, resulting in this technical innovation. But a crucial innovation was not technical at all; it was legal, and social. Larry Nagel’s SPICE, or Simulation Program with Integrated Circuit Emphasis, was central to this part of the story, as was UC Berkeley’s status as a public university:

Nagel:  I like to think that SPICE was actually the first open-source project way back before there was such a thing as open-source. But Don Pederson had a very strong belief that anything that was developed at a public institution should be in the public domain. So all of the Berkeley programs were available free of charge, or basically for whatever it cost to load the program onto a tape. So the fact that this program was for free had an enormous impact in a lot of ways. First of all, the program was made available to anybody so it diffused very quickly out to various different universities. And all the students that learned to use SPICE took it with them to industry. So it wasn’t at all long after the original release of SPICE in 1971 that basically every major integrated circuit manufacturer had their own version of SPICE. There was a TI SPICE at Texas Instruments. There was an ADI SPICE at Analogue Devices. After I graduated there was a program called ADVICE, which was developed at Bell Laboratories and used at Bell Laboratories. …

Don’s deal was that you can have the program for free but if you find a bug in it and fix it you have to give it back to us. You have to tell us what the bug is and how you fixed it. There were several generations of students that kept improving SPICE. SPICE improved because you had this entire base of industry feeding information back.

Nagel:  I think for Don it was really a matter of principle. He didn’t do a cost-benefit analysis. He just said, “This is how it has to be. We’re a public institution. We have to make it publicly available.” But if you look in hindsight, the reason that the program became as widely accepted as it did was largely because it was freely available to everyone. Anybody could walk out of Cory Hall with a tape and they had their version of SPICE. That process went on for a long time. I think the last version of SPICE that was released was SPICE III and that was in 1980s. So we’re talking about Berkeley being pretty much a SPICE factory for fifteen, maybe even twenty years.

Narration: Here’s Paul Gray again:

Gray:    Long story short, within ten or fifteen years of that point in time, every circuit design engineer in the world was using some flavor of a derivative of SPICE. It became an industry standard. The industry wouldn’t really exist without that kind of simulation capability. Once you get [the scale] to the thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of transistors, it’s the only way you can do design. … So it was a huge innovation and had an incredible impact and also pioneered a great software dissemination model for universities. Many others emulated that public domain model of dissemination. … It has been a big part of the landscape here at Berkeley for many years.

Narration: And so, is the Silicon Valley phenomenon really just about Stanford, chip companies in the Valley, and amateur hobbyists?


If you asked the random citizen on the street anywhere in the Bay Area they would probably say that Stanford was way more important than Berkeley. I think “way more important” is not correct. … judging by the number of companies started by faculty or former students, or by the numbers of alumni employed in the valley, one could argue that Berkeley and Stanford are comparable contributors. In terms of innovations that have mattered, there are many.

Narration: So, what does this mean? The development of computer-aided design greatly facilitated experimental research in the design of new microchips. But there is something even more fundamental going on here. First, easy availability of quasi-open source software encouraged commercial development of new chip designs without making it prohibitively expensive to do so through proprietary licensing, copyright, and other legal devices. But Berkeley’s model still allowed companies to make a version of the software they could own.

UC Berkeley deliberately went down a different road, as a direct consequence of its hard-wiring as a public university. The second pivot point here is the separation of design from manufacturing. This software, and all its descendants, allowed companies to focus on the more-profitable end of microchip design, and to outsource the much-more-expensive part of the process, manufacturing, to other companies, and, eventually, to other countries. Now there are consequences to this change, environmental, socioeconomics and otherwise that we can’t cover here. But suffice it to say that in 2015, there were just a handful of major semiconductor fabrication facilities in the United States, with exports totaling $40 billion. Compare that to the fab-less semiconductor design companies, many of which are located in Silicon Valley: total exports $166 billion.

This is just one example of the influence that UC Berkeley’s Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science has had on the size, character, and global leadership of Silicon Valley. It was a combination of social, legal, and technical innovation that struck the Valley with lightning force, and in turn accelerated change and growth in the semiconductor industry to this very day. For more about these stories, visit the Oral History Center website at and search across our entire collection or through the full interviews with Paul Gray and Laurence Nagel.


New oral history: “George Leitmann: Engineering Science, Risk, and Relationships at UC Berkeley and Beyond”

George Leitmann: Engineering Science, Risk, and Relationships at UC Berkeley and Beyond

George Leitmann on rocket test track, China Lake, mid-1950s
George Leitmann on rocket test track, Naval Ordnance Test Station, China Lake, mid-1950s

The Oral History Center is proud to announce the launch of the oral history of UC Berkeley engineering scientist and Professor Emeritus George Leitmann. This is a large oral history, twenty-three hours of recording. From February 12, 2018 until February 12, 2019, Dr. Leitmann and I spent eleven sessions at his home talking about everything from his childhood in Vienna to Adolf Hitler and Sigmund Freud—  both of whom he saw up close—to reconnaissance during World War II, rocket science, UC Berkeley administration, the riots at Berkeley in 1969, mathematics, the evolution of science and engineering instruction, the importance of family, and the kindness of dogs, among many other subjects.

Clearly, the sheer density of his life, including over a half-century of service as a professor and an administrator at UC Berkeley, demands this size of oral history. Another reason to go into such depth is that we look to individual narrators as witnesses to complex historical events. We want them to speak about what they have seen, experienced, suffered, and accomplished. We want them to tell us something about the seemingly inexplicable, the invisible, or even the conventional and overdetermined.

Leitmann boy dressed for play, Vienna, early 1930s
George Leitmann as a boy dressed inappropriately for play, Vienna, early 1930s


What do you learn when things fall apart? One of the themes that emerged clearly before we started filming at the beginning of 2018 was risk. George Leitmann’s life until the age of twelve or so had been pretty idyllic.







Then everything got turned upside down, and a young boy had to become a man very quickly. The coming catastrophe seemed highly improbable in the prosperous and stable Vienna of the 1930s. His elders told him so. They joked about it. Then he saw the man that everyone was talking about ride triumphantly into town, and he saw the other boys marching with crisp uniforms that had been brought in on trucks or out of hiding. His home was stolen and his family were split apart.

Building intact before World War II
George Leitmann’s uncle’s storefront, with Leitmann family apartment above, before the war










building damage after World War II
Storefront in 1946, George Leitmann in foreground

With the adaptability of youth, Dr. Leitmann escaped with some of his family to New York, where he developed a new version of stability and relative happiness. But he turned again to a world of danger by joining the US Army combat engineers in World War II. Combat engineers rebuild bridges and roads destroyed by a retreating army, and Leitmann performed reconnaissance for the engineers. In other words, he was in front of the group that was in front of an advancing army, often behind enemy lines, witnessing again and again the fates of the less fortunate. Risk.

US soldiers in Germany 1945
Sid Shapiro and George Leitmann, Germany, early 1945

The history of science focuses on the relationship between the social and the technical. We study the institutions, the people, and the politics that make knowledge. It has seldom been so clear to me the relationship between a scientist’s lived experience and their research. After the war and a master’s degree in physics, Dr. Leitmann was recruited to work on the theoretical foundations of rocket research for the US Navy. He turned this experience and knowledge into seminal contributions to something called control theory, basically the mathematical rules that govern a system in a defined state of optimality or stability. This sounds very abstract, but Leitmann’s research ends up being used in rockets, economics, fisheries management, seismic stabilization, management of wind shear in aircraft, artificial intelligence, and many other areas. Many of our society’s systems are organized around probability, what is most likely to happen or not happen. There is a danger in this design that Dr. Leitmann has lived before. One key element of his life’s work is to account and control for highly improbable and catastrophic threats to a system, any system. But this seemingly theoretical research trajectory was informed by visceral experiences of danger and catastrophe. This was one of the most striking themes of these interviews: plan for the improbable and the terrible. Don’t look away.

corpses, concentration camp victims, Landsberg, Germany 1945
Landsberg concentration camp, 1945. Photo taken by George Leitmann the day of the liberation of the camp. Leitmann recalled that seeing the bodies “probably hit me more than it hit the rest of the
guys, because here my father was still missing.”

Finally, and because of all of the above, we want narrators of these long life histories to be wise. When I asked Dr. Leitmann to be wise, he would usually shrug and say he was no expert, even when he was. So that was itself a piece of wisdom: be humble. We are not so much individuals as people who stand and fall by our communities. When we were planning our interview sessions together, I was constantly trying to get a handle on the vast range of his research interests, or to understand how to approach the monumental and global tragedies to which he was an important witness, and Dr. Leitmann would always come back to people. Did he mention this person? Did he give enough credit or time to that person? Other people matter. Family matters. Family is bigger than family. Other people first. This is his way of living, and his secular way of repairing the world, about whose broken state he always worries. And this is one reason Dr. Leitmann and I both suspect he has been so celebrated and decorated by his peers, his colleagues, his country and many others. He stands as an example of how to move through difficult times and face problems without being consumed by them, to reach a state of gratitude and qualified happiness for the complicated gift of being part of something grander than oneself.

The Oral History Center wishes to thank Richard Robbins for a generous contribution that made this project possible.


Paul Burnett, Berkeley, CA, 2019


Bill Clemens / UC Museum of Paleontology Oral History Project

Bill Clemens in his office at the Valley Life Sciences Building, 2016

Caution and Care: The Evolution of Paleontology at the University of California Museum of Paleontology: Volume I

Caution and Care: The Evolution of Paleontology at the University of California Museum of Paleontology: Volume II

The Bill Clemens / UCMP oral history project has been several years in the making. Historian Sam Redman first proposed to do a history of members of the University of California Museum of Paleontology in 2011, specifically to interview Dr. William Clemens and a number of his graduate students. The concept behind the project was novel and important: to document with long-form oral history of successive cohorts of students who were advised by a single scholar, while at the same time interviewing the scholar in depth about the evolution of his field, as well as the key transformations in the institutions in which he played significant roles.

UCMP Associate Director Mark Goodwin was the fulcrum in organizing the project, from fundraising to arranging for interviews with Bill’s students from all over the world. My first session with Bill was December 18, 2014, and my last was March 10, 2016. One of the factors contributing to the length of time spanning these sessions was the fact that Bill was caring for his wife Dorothy “Dot” Clemens while she battled cancer. There was some hope that she would live to see the project completed, but she ultimately passed before its completion. After a time, Bill resumed the project, in tribute not only to UCMP, his colleagues, and students, but also to her memory, as Dorothy Clemens was deeply committed to ensuring that Bill’s oral history was documented for the ages.

Several themes are explored in his interview. There is a longstanding concern in the history of science with the ways in which scientists establish and maintain their credibility within and beyond their communities. By the 1950s, the queen of the sciences was physics, and the public was consumed by the promise and peril of high technology, from the splitting of the atom to the electronic consumer items in the shops. In the public mind, paleontology perhaps had more in common with the 19th-century field sciences than with the burgeoning domains of digital computing or molecular biology.

When Bill Clemens started his undergraduate work UC Berkeley Department of Paleontology at the beginning of the 1950s, the modern evolutionary synthesis in biology, which linked laboratory research in genetics to field studies, statistical analysis, paleontology, and a revitalized Darwinian theory of evolution, had only just been worked out before the war. The helical structure of DNA was announced in Bill’s junior year. In other words, Bill began his career at the beginning of a new common cause in science — a better understanding of relationships between genetic variation and distribution in changing environments over geologic time — with cascades of new questions to follow in the decades to come.

This project allows us to look at how the synthesis unfolds in the 20th century in terms of relationships among and across disciplines, the deployment of new techniques and technologies, and in terms of the social and historical context of scientific knowledge production.

Sitting on Bill's Chevy Blazer. Jordon, MT, 1979 Front: Mark Goodwin, Cathy Engdahl, Mike Greenwald, Lowell Dingus Rear: Jane, Bob, and Duane Engdahl (Skinner Award honorees), Bill, Dave Archibald Photograph courtesy of Mark Goodwin
Sitting on Bill’s Chevy Blazer. Jordon, MT, 1979
Front: Mark Goodwin, Cathy Engdahl, Mike Greenwald, Lowell Dingus
Rear: Jane, Bob, and Duane Engdahl (Skinner Award honorees), Bill, Dave Archibald
Photograph courtesy of Mark Goodwin

The drama of paleontology is often heightened by the public and romantic interest in the gigantic specimens. Owing in part to the Evolutionary Synthesis, the paleontologists of Bill’s cohort were interested, not just in the structures of fossil specimens themselves, but in where and how they lived in relation to one another. To get at some of these ecological questions, these students turned for example to the very small microvertebrates which could be found with a new technique of screenwashing, basically sifting for tiny fossils. What they found in the Lance Formation in Wyoming in one season equaled the number of fossils of their kind ever discovered up to that point. The field branched away from the romance of the big dinosaurs and toward a more detailed understanding of evolutionary relationships among specimens and of the developmental characteristics that might tell the scientists something about how the creatures lived.

There is a lot of research in the history of science devoted to what historian of science Rob Kohler called the lab/field border. The basic question is this: given the growing disparity in prestige and resources between the field sciences and the bench sciences in the early 20th century, how did field scientists struggle for recognition, authority, and scarce resources, when the best scientific practice was increasingly defined as the controlled laboratory experiment?

Field scientists brought techniques and instrumentation into the field to increase the precision and quantity of data collected; and they also brought back from the field new questions to lab scientists and theorists about the complexity, messiness, and porosity of the data. This project shows that this process is part of the ongoing fulfillment of the evolutionary synthesis: a harmonization of the basic questions across the life sciences, with the kind of cross-fertilization that we saw in Charles Darwin’s education and work practice. We see new hybrids of paleontology and other life sciences emerging, such that some practitioners could be viewed from a distance as statisticians, or labcoat-wearing experimentalists working with the vast collections of specimens collected by Bill and others. The other piece of the lab/field border concept is that the field is also a complex social and political place. This is one of many of Bill’s soft skills that students talk about over and again in the history. How does one maintain good relationships with the property owners who are stewards of the places in which the paleontologists work?

For all of these reasons and more, place is important in the field sciences. But in few sciences is the precise meaning of place as important as paleontology, where a few feet of geological strata contain millions of years of data. Here is Bill Clemens on the trickiness of pinning down a fossil to a place, and therefore a time.

It’s important not to understate the importance of this scale and extent of fossil collection. The organized work of Clemens’ generation and the one that followed made possible newer types of data-intensive computerized research on paleontology, evolutionary biology, and climate change.

Here is Marisol Montellano on the importance of Bill’s efforts in fossil collection and characterization.

In fact, it is not uncommon for doctoral students today to conduct their research entirely with collected specimens in a laboratory, although Bill might not recommend this exclusive a course of study.

Here is Bill’s last student, Greg Wilson, on what Bill was like as teacher and a mentor.

Bill Clemens’ Students

It is here that we come to a really special aspect of this history, the second volume of this project: the thirteen interviews with Bill’s graduate students and the current Curator and leader of the UC Museum of Paleontology, Charles Marshall. Bill and his students are witnesses to the changes in the field of paleontology, the increasing use of computing to process large quantities of data, and the field’s increasing involvement in the most pressing questions of the last four decades: the resilience of species, the interdependence of organisms, and the consequences of a changing climate on the abilities of organisms to adapt to both sudden and gradual changes. Here is Bill’s former student Jessica Theodor on Reconciling Molecular and Morphological Data.

These questions are also a reflection of my initial theme about credibility in science. Through these interviews, we see how paleontology has adapted itself to a changing scientific climate, contending with the introduction of new species of ideas such as the asteroid-impact hypothesis for the extinction of most dinosaur species at the end of the Cretaceous, or through the adoption of sophisticated mathematical analyses of the surface structure of mammalian teeth to answer questions about the evolution of a particular species’ diet millions of years ago.

Here is Lowell Dingus on how he dealt with the approach of physicists Walter and Luis Alvarez to the question of the extinction of many species at the end of the Cretaceous Period.

Scientists struggle for credibility, and one way of doing so is to hybridize their research techniques and programs with the dominant sciences of the day, such as molecular and structural biology. The Department of Paleontology’s integration with the Department of Integrative Biology at UC Berkeley was part of a larger effort to cross-fertilize ideas and techniques from related disciplines that focus on evolutionary processes. “Interdisciplinarity” had an early home here at Berkeley and especially at UCMP, long before Integrative Biology was founded in the 1990s. One result of this integration is that the UC Museum of Paleontology has once again assumed a worldwide leadership role in the conduct of cutting-edge research, though it has long led the field of mammalian paleontology.

On a more human level, you will find in these pages, that the engines of research and innovation are fueled by human virtues as much as intellect. Bill and Dot’s patience and empathy for Bill’s students as they navigated the challenges of graduate school and the dust and heat of the field  is well documented, as is Bill’s curiosity, meticulousness, patience and care with which he draws his scientific conclusions. It is surely a mark of his influence that his students have taken up the charge by using new techniques evidence, carefully tested, to gradually move their respective fields forward increment by increment.

Paul Burnett

Berkeley, CA, 2017