A couple of weeks ago we lost Gene Cardiff. My memories of him go all the way back to my early childhood — some five decades ago. From the early 1970s through at least the early 1990s, my family was active in the San Bernardino Valley Audubon Society, and during that time many of the organization’s field trips were led by Gene. Those trips, plus Gene’s other outings through UC Riverside Extension and those he privately organized were… a second home to me.
The person I am today — a federal wildlife biologist specializing in birds, an avid birder (and recovering county lister), and occasional birding field trip leader — is due in no small part to the time Gene invested in me over the first two decades of my life.
I have only memory snippets from the early days: A trip to Alamos, Mexico, Christmas 1974; I was 6 and Gene lifted me up to his scope to see an unexpected Bare-throated Tiger-Heron. A SBVAS pancake breakfast birdwalk to Covington Park and Big Morongo where the pancakes Gene and the Kniffens cooked up garnered my interest more than the following birdwalk. A Salton Sea trip where Great-tailed Grackles were, at the time, novel enough for Gene to point out with some excitement. An afternoon on Mount Pinos where *wild* California Condors glided overhead.
Back in those days, Gene sported a flat-top crew cut and drove a big, gas-guzzling International Harvester Travelall 4x4. This was in stark contrast to Gene’s later vehicles, a series of tiny, fuel-efficient Honda Civics. Of course, the substantial change in ground clearance that came with the switch never stopped Gene. As a teen, and by then, an enthusiastic birder who went with Gene whenever I could, I remember riding in his Honda along the vague notion of a dirt road that led into Fort Piute in the then “East Mojave.” Rocks would occasionally roll along the undercarriage, and Gene would mutter his admiration for the Civic’s “skid plates.”
In 1983, Gene organized a UCR-based class trip to Michigan. My dad, who worked in education, had summers off, so he, my younger sister, Laura, and I joined Gene’s trip. It was an awesome adventure for a 14-year-old birder. Fundamentally, it was an epic road trip that allowed Gene to fill in holes in his Life List — and I, as a California kid, was blown away! The itinerary included White-tailed Ptarmigan in the High Rockies, longspurs in the short grass prairie, and Fish Crow in Tennessee. These were but a few of the birds that were “on the way” to the primary destination: Kirkland’s Warblers in the jack pine forests in Michigan. And once that was achieved, we then birded our way around the Lake Michigan region.
One memorable event on that trip occurred near Solon Springs, Wisconsin. Our group came upon a territorial Eastern Phoebe and Gene spontaneously got the notion to discover whether the phoebe had a nest under the bridge that we were standing on. To confirm its breeding status, he had me help him dangle my sister by her ankles off the side of the bridge, much to Laura’s chagrin and consternation. Unfortunately, she kept her eyes clamped shut and was too busy screaming to look. We never discovered if there was a nest — and my sister never forgave us for our impromptu hijinks in the wilds of Wisconsin.
Gene was many things, and “indefatigable” was foremost among them. Other commenters have mentioned his oft-used exclamation, “Let’s GOOOOOO! We’re burning daylight!” Daylight was a true commodity on his trips. Many of Gene’s outings were dawn to dusk, and usually the destinations were an hour or two’s drive away from the Inland Empire. And, he would often have a pre-dawn stop at a Denny’s or some other “greasy spoon” that served pancakes and bacon. Hardy participants could share more time with Gene at a second restaurant at the end of the day.
Eighteen- or even 20-hour days were de rigueur with Gene. And, during migration, he often scheduled a formal field trip on Saturday and then went out on his own with a few friends to a different destination the next day! It wasn’t a “good weekend” with Gene if you didn’t spend the next full week recovering. (I once recommended UCR field classes to some beginner-ish birders, and they resoundingly declined. They informed me that they’d been on one of Gene’s field trips before, and they were never again going with that “slave driver.”)
I volunteered at various points with Gene in the San Bernardino County Museum. I worked with him on the public bird displays, the behind-the-scenes scientific collections, and the educational kits that his department was developing to loan out to local teachers. One memorable day, while constructing the plexiglass boxes for those kits, we were repeatedly applying acrylic cement in an assembly line fashion. Apparently, the large garage-like area we were working in didn’t really have adequate ventilation for the volatile glue, because suddenly every little thing was exceedingly humorous. Gene and I chuckled, giggled, and guffawed our way to an area with fresh air.
He was generous with me in so many ways. When I traveled with him, I rarely was allowed to pay for my own morning pancakes. He readily shared bird ID tips, which may have required a bit of indulgent patience on his part because of youthful impertinence on my part. He didn’t wax on about the olden days, but I treasured the times when he talked about birds he and others discovered. Often, he told these stories while we were looking at the discovery, preserved as a specimen in the museum. On rare occasions, I even got to hear about his exploits with the famed oologist Wilson Hanna, whose impressive egg collection Gene would later curate at the museum.
Another aspect of Gene’s personality was that he was gregarious; he rarely birded alone. A sizable cadre of regulars came on his field trips, whether under the auspices of SBVA or UCR, or one of his frequent self-organized side trips. I count myself fortunate to have been part of that community during a formative time of my life. In those days, it was not easy being a teenager whose primary passion was the very uncool pastime of birdwatching. Gene and his community — many members of which are on this list — were very important to me personally. Thank you, Gene, for being my mentor, and thank you to all of you who welcomed me as a valued member into Gene’s larger birding community.
-Gjon Hazard
P.S. For those who remember The Hazards… Norwood and Betty now live in the Tucson region and say they are doing “fair to middling,” which is pretty good for a nonagenarian and octogenarian. My sister, Laura, also moved to Tucson a few years ago — and, for some reason, has never taken up the hobby of bungie jumping off of bridges.
