Coffee with Claude

Two months before Ted Hullar died, we gathered for dinner at his son Tim's home in Portland. Ted was ninety, coping with the onset of Alzheimer's, but his eyes still lit up when Paul Sheppard walked through the door. Paul had been my field assistant during my Cornell doctoral research in the early 1980s, then followed my footsteps into graduate work with Ted, studying the fire history of the San Jacinto Wilderness. He went on to become a professor of dendrochronology at the University of Arizona in Tucson, maintaining correspondence with Ted across the decades.

That July evening became an impromptu Cornell reunion. Around Tim's table sat Ted and Joan, their sons Tim and Ted Jr. with Ted Jr.'s wife Suzanne, Paul, and me. Tim's wife Dr. Enjae Jung arrived late, tending to grandson Everett who hovered around the edges of our conversation. We reminisced about wilderness, science, and the paths our lives had taken since those Ithaca days. The conversation flowed easily between generations, bridging forty-six years of shared history.

I didn't know it would be our last conversation. Two months later, Ted took a fall. He passed away peacefully on September 28, 2025.

When I think about Ted now, I see him as he was on Mount San Jacinto in the summer of 1981, wearing his field gear and horn-rimmed glasses, fresh off a week in Alaska with my office mate Marty Welbourne. He and two other members of my dissertation committee had just visited Marty's study site. Now they were standing with me at our base camp, full backpacks on, ready to climb into my research area at over 10,000 feet elevation.

I'd made a handmade sign reading "CORNY CORNELL GROUP" and we took a photograph. The sign was self-deprecating humor at its best—these serious academics poking fun at themselves before heading into the California wilderness. We spent days hiking between research sites, Ted asking probing questions about wilderness management policies, state versus federal approaches, and the nuances of recreational impact. At the summit, we stacked ourselves against the brilliant blue sky for another photograph, grinning like kids who'd just conquered something difficult together.

That field visit mattered to me in ways I struggle to articulate even now. Having your entire dissertation committee willing to make that trek demonstrated something profound about Ted's commitment to students and his belief that good ecological research happens on the ground, not just in offices and seminar rooms. The middle-aged jokes about sore knees and backpack weight only made it more real. These weren't armchair academics—they understood that if you're going to study wilderness, you need to be in wilderness.

I arrived at Cornell in 1979 carrying an unusual background. My undergraduate and master's work at Cal Poly Pomona had given me extensive coursework across every field biology and ecology class the faculty offered. But my real education happened during summers and weekends from 1973 to 1977, working as a California State Parks wilderness park aide at Mount San Jacinto Wilderness State Park. I lived in the backcountry for ten-day stretches, immersed in wilderness visitor management, resource stewardship, field botany, birdwatching -- while backpacking, rock climbing, mountaineering, skiing, and snowshoeing. That sky island ecosystem spans one of the highest elevational gradients of any mountain range in the continental United States and Mexico. I was highly motivated to explore and learn everything I could about it.

Between my master's work and Cornell, I spent two years with an environmental consulting firm in Los Angeles. They hired me to conduct biological surveys for environmental impact reports—work that took me from Admiralty Island and the Misty Fiords in Alaska surveying for mining operations, to rafting the entire San Juan River from New Mexico to Lake Powell documenting rare plants, to assessing whether California's Department of Fish and Game had conducted adequate environmental reviews across every county in the state. Those surveys were eye-opening. They showed me the gaps in legally mandated environmental reviews and triggered an idea: better science needed to be applied to developing remote sensing and analytical tools that could improve our understanding of natural systems and help predict the impacts of human development.

That realization brought me to Cornell's new program in Natural Resources Policy and Planning. I wrote to Professor Lawrence Hamilton, proposing to conduct field research in the San Jacinto Mountains comparing how the California State Park Wilderness Act and the Federal Wilderness Act were implemented in the same ecosystem. Two approaches to wilderness management sharing common values but employing distinctly different strategies and recreational use policies—a perfect natural experiment. Professor Hamilton accepted me as a graduate student and put me on the path that led to my career.

Cornell gave me an extraordinary interdisciplinary education. I learned remote sensing techniques from the engineering college, environmental law from the College of Environmental Design, quantitative ecology and multivariate analysis from Robert Whittaker, botanical systematics, systems ecology, and computer modeling using Fortran. This was before GIS existed, when satellite imagery was crude, when we relied on aerial photographs and mainframe computers. I was building what we were starting to call conservation biology from whatever tools we could assemble.

Then I met Ted Hullar.

Ted was from Minnesota, an avid canoeist and passionate advocate for land protection and wilderness conservation. He taught a graduate seminar in wildlands conservation policy and planning, and I took deep drinks from that well of information. It gave me the final pieces I needed to build my dissertation research plan. Ted wasn't just another professor—he had a political mind, a chemist's rigor, and a personal passion for wilderness that integrated all three dimensions into something powerful.

After his seminar, I asked Ted to join my committee. He accepted, even though he was extraordinarily busy as Director of Research at Cornell, a high-level position in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences that gave him leverage over significant research funding. We met weekly, and Ted's approach to mentorship was distinctive. He exercised my thought processes and encouraged an entrepreneurial mindset. He fed a propensity I already had and helped hone it to be competitive not just in graduate studies but in the real world. Ted was more than an academic—he successfully navigated political and administrative hierarchies as a savvy coalition builder and decision-maker.

What I didn't fully appreciate at the time was the depth of Ted's scientific foundation. In 1966, while working at SUNY Buffalo, he had independently discovered a chemical reaction for synthesizing deoxy sugars from benzylidene acetals. Stephen Hanessian, working at another institution, made the identical discovery simultaneously. Both published their findings within months of each other, and the reaction became known as the Hanessian-Hullar reaction. It proved foundational for pharmaceutical and antibiotic synthesis, providing a selective method for creating halodeoxy sugars that are critical building blocks for many medications.

The scientific debate between Hullar's radical-displacement mechanism and Hanessian's ionic mechanism continued for decades, demonstrating the depth and rigor of the original work. As late as 2006, chemists were still publishing papers refining the understanding of the reaction's regioselectivity. Stephen Hanessian, now a UC Irvine Distinguished Professor, later said of Ted: "I remember him as a brilliant synthetic chemist whose work was characterized by the highest level of scientific rigor."

That scientific rigor informed everything Ted did. When he later championed environmental toxicology research, water resource policy, and wilderness conservation, he brought a chemist's precision to policy work. He understood research methodology from the ground up, which gave him credibility when advocating for conservation science funding.

When Professor Lawrence Hamilton retired to Hawaii, James Lassoie took over as my advisor. Jim and Ted already had a close professional relationship, so the transition felt natural. I was so motivated by the Cornell environment that I completed all my research and graduated in less than four years.

In my final summer of fieldwork in 1982, I met Ken Berg on a trail in the San Jacinto Mountains. We recognized each other as kindred spirits by our field marks—both carrying plant presses and thick copies of Philip Munz's Flora of California. Ken was an undergraduate at UC Riverside and the resident caretaker of the James San Jacinto Mountains Reserve, a place I knew from a weekend Palms to Pines field trip during my undergraduate years. That trip had taken us from sea level at the Salton Sea up through the rapid changes in plant and animal communities with elevation, camping at the James Reserve where I met Mr. and Mrs. James in their final years.

Ken invited me to use the James as a base for my fieldwork. That summer, his supervisor Professor Wilbur Mayhew announced he had funding to hire a Ph.D.-level resident director. Thanks to Ken's recommendation, Bill asked me to apply. I was offered the position and began working on August 1, 1982, while still writing my dissertation and newly married. I completed my dissertation, went through commencement in May 1983, and officially began my career with the University of California Natural Reserve System at UC Riverside.

Ted and I stayed in touch, but I was surprised when he called in 1984 asking my opinion of UCR. Then he revealed he'd applied for the Executive Vice Chancellor position and was likely to be offered the job. I encouraged him enthusiastically. My program at the James was austere, but I was excited about opportunities for infrastructure and program development, and I would certainly benefit from Ted's wise counsel. Ted, Joan, and their boys arrived in California, and a new phase of our relationship began.

I had an idea I wanted to share with Ted. In September 1982, flying from Idyllwild back to Ithaca for my final dissertation defense, I'd been reading Byte magazine's article about MIT's Virtual Aspen Project. They'd mounted four movie cameras on a truck, photographed every street in Aspen, Colorado, and transferred thousands of frames to laserdiscs, creating an interactive map where you could virtually walk through the city, enter buildings, and access information. That article planted a seed: what if I could take my years of studying the natural history of the San Jacinto Mountains and electronically organize that knowledge so it became interactively available to thousands, perhaps millions, of people?

I'd spent 1983 and early 1984 writing a proposal for what I called an "Electronic Museum" of the San Jacinto Mountains flora and fauna. I received dozens of polite "no thank you" rejection letters. Finally, a brave foundation gave me a small seed grant to build a demonstration. I bought a brand new Apple II computer, a laserdisc player, built a black box to control the player, and had just enough money left to rent broadcast-quality video equipment for a single day.

On October 4, 1984, I escorted a desk-bound video engineer named Jim up Black Mountain. We were carrying nearly 100 pounds of equipment to locations requiring rock climbing. Jim admitted he smoked too much and was entirely out of shape. What he didn't mention until we were on exposed cliff faces was that he had acrophobia. We filmed ten panoramic locations between Lake Fulmor and Black Mountain, spiraling the camera from ground to sky at each spot, plus hundreds of close-ups of wildflowers, insects, birds, and lizards. When Jim's face went white and he started shaking on a fifty-foot cliff, I helped him down and completed the shot myself. Four months later, after editing everything onto a thirty-minute videocassette and transferring it to laserdisc, I had completed the world's first computer-based interactive multimedia nature walk.

I shared this concept with Ted once he was settled at UCR. He loved it. Ted provided a significant small equipment grant that led to the first Macroscope Ecology Laserdisc. That seed funding enabled me to secure subsequent major grants, eventually leading to my participation in the NSF Center for Embedded Networked Sensing, a $40 million project that pioneered the integration of wireless sensor networks into ecological research.

Ted understood the importance of the UC Natural Reserve System. He funded a second full-time steward position at the James Reserve and increased our operating budget, giving me the foundation to raise additional funding and begin the program development that shaped my career trajectory. UCR managed several important reserves besides the James, and Ted championed them all. He was only at Riverside for three years—moving to UC Davis as chancellor in 1987—but his impact on my professional life was profound.

Both of Ted's sons spent a summer at the James Reserve in the high school science enrichment program I'd established. I teamed them with researchers so they could become field helpers and understand the field research strategies our faculty employed. It was a terrific program, and both boys went into science careers. That family connection mattered to Ted and to me. We weren't just colleagues; our lives and families had become intertwined.

We stayed in touch after Ted moved to Davis. I would visit him when traveling to see my parents in Northern California. The relationship evolved but never diminished. Ted's tenure at UC Davis was marked by his characteristic bold thinking—expanding academic programs, increasing diversity, purchasing Russell Ranch for sustainable agriculture research, and developing the Principles of Community that still guide the campus thirty-five years later. He also faced challenges: a 1990 recession forcing budget cuts, a controversial proposal about using research funding as a faculty success metric, and ultimately a reassignment by the UC President in 1993 followed by his resignation.

After leaving UC Davis, Ted returned to Cornell as director of the Center for the Environment, coordinating the National Water Initiative and advocating for $250 million annually in water research funding. He served on the International Joint Commission's St. Lawrence River Board of Control, bringing his expertise in environmental issues to international water management. He retired to Tucson with Joan, settling into an academic retirement community. I visited once there. A few years ago, they moved to Portland to be near Tim, and I was able to see them at least twice yearly, maintaining regular email correspondence.

Throughout Ted's career, he pioneered approaches to environmental policy that integrated rigorous science with political savvy. His work in New York's Department of Environmental Conservation in the 1970s helped protect four million acres of Adirondack and Catskill wilderness during a critical era of institutionalizing conservation. His advocacy for land-grant colleges leading water research addressed what he called "grand national challenges." At every stage, Ted brought the same qualities I'd witnessed in that wildlands conservation seminar at Cornell: think big, navigate administrative mazes skillfully, and apply science rigorously to decision-making.

That July dinner in Portland was precious partly because we all knew time was short. Ted's Alzheimer's was progressing, but that evening he was present and engaged. We talked about the Cornell days, about wilderness, about the paths our lives had taken. Paul and I, both students Ted had mentored into conservation careers. Tim and Ted Jr., who'd learned field ecology at the James Reserve and carried that experience into their own scientific work. Five people spanning forty-six years of connection, gathered around Tim's table.

The photograph from that evening shows us gathered in Tim's home. Ted is wearing his characteristic plaid shirt and glasses, surrounded by family and the students he mentored across decades. An ordinary dinner party snapshot capturing something extraordinary about how mentorship echoes across generations.

Two weeks later, Ted fell. He didn't recover. He passed away peacefully with Joan by his side after sixty-seven years of marriage.

I've been thinking about that 1981 photograph from the Mount San Jacinto summit. Five people at 10,805 feet, stacked playfully against brilliant blue sky. We'd made it to the top together, academic committee and graduate student, sharing the physical challenge of getting to where the science actually happened. Ted's face in that photograph shows pure joy—not just from reaching the summit, but from being fully engaged with the work, the landscape, and the people.

That's how I choose to remember him. Not diminished by Alzheimer's in his final months, but as he was in his prime: a brilliant synthetic chemist who co-discovered a reaction bearing his name, an environmental leader who protected millions of acres of wildlands, a university chancellor who expanded programs and championed diversity, and a mentor who met weekly with students to encourage entrepreneurial thinking and rigorous science.

The support Ted gave me—that Macroscope equipment grant, the additional James Reserve staff position, the increased operating budget—weren't just budget line items. They were investments in a vision of how technology and ecology could intersect to advance conservation. I couldn't have accomplished what I did without his support, encouragement, and ideas.

When I learned of his death, I felt the particular kind of loss that comes when a mentor passes—someone who saw potential in you before you fully saw it yourself, who opened doors you didn't know existed, who believed that good science required getting your boots muddy and your hands dirty.

Ted Hullar died at ninety after a remarkable life spanning biochemistry, environmental toxicology, wilderness conservation, water policy, and academic leadership. He leaves behind Joan, sons Timothy and Ted Jr., grandson Everett, and countless students whose lives he shaped. The Hanessian-Hullar reaction continues to be cited in pharmaceutical research. The UC Natural Reserve System he championed supports field ecology research. The Principles of Community he developed still guide UC Davis.

The Cornell wilderness conservation lineage continues. Paul followed in my footsteps studying fire ecology in the San Jacintos, now training dendrochronologists at Arizona. Tim and Ted Jr. carry forward their father's commitment to rigorous science. My work in embedded sensor networks grew directly from that Macroscope seed grant.

When I look at that July photograph from Portland, I see those threads of mentorship woven through four decades. Ted Hullar was my committee member, advisor, funder, colleague, and friend. He was the Minnesota canoeist who loved wilderness, the chemist who co-discovered a foundational reaction, the administrator who championed conservation science, and the mentor who encouraged us to think without limits.

Rest easy, Ted. The wilderness endures. The students continue the work. The science advances. And that photograph from Mount San Jacinto summit reminds us that the best research happens when serious scientists don't take themselves too seriously, when mentors join students in the field, and when the joy of discovery transcends the challenges of steep trails and heavy backpacks.

Thank you for believing that good ecological research happens on the ground. Thank you for encouraging me to think without limits. Thank you for that phone call about UCR, and for that final dinner in Portland where we remembered it all.