When we bought our farm in 2016 it felt like we could do anything. We had a dream, a lot of ambition, and absolutely no idea what was ahead of us.
Our original plan was hops. The craft beer industry was just emerging, and Jarred—an avid homebrewer himself—wanted to bring fresh hops to brewers.
We immersed ourselves in learning the crop and spent nearly six years searching for the perfect property. We even had the name: Hoppy Valley Farm, a play on “Happy Valley", where we met and fell in love at Penn State.
On September 14, 2016—just two days before our wedding—we signed the papers and became first-generation farmers.
The farm was everything we had been looking for: 22 acres of tree-lined fields and prime soil perfect for growing hops.
But in the year after buying the farm, we started to witness other startup growers realize the harsh realities of growing in the Northeast.
Then, we found wild hops growing right in our valley. At first, it was exciting. But for brewers, seeds are a highly undesirable characteristic. And wild plants nearby meant that controlling cross-pollination would be a nearly impossible battle.
It began to feel like the land was pushing against us. It forced us to step back and ask: Are we pushing too hard against circumstances we were never set to overcome?
Letting go of the original plan was difficult - it definitely felt like failure at the time. But the dream of building something here hadn't changed.
So, we started learning. We talked to farmers, tried our hand at traditional crops, and learned very quickly that 22 acres was simply not enough land to compete at meaningful scale with commodity agriculture.
Our question slowly changed. Instead of wondering: What should we grow here? We began asking: What can this particular piece of land sustain?
We didn't have an answer. But letting go of the old one finally gave us room to notice something else.
As our plans changed, so did the seasons. And one day, as Jarred was cleaning up the property, the idea hit him in the head - quite literally.
Hickory nuts were falling from trees in the hedgerows all around the property. Jarred stopped what he was doing and let his curiosity lead.
He began researching the trees and soon discovered the extraordinary range of resources offered by the Shagbark Hickory—including the tradition of making syrup from its bark.
A few months later, in January 2019, Jarred piloted his first batch in the barn, in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of the night (when he does his best work).
Our oldest daughter, Julia, had been born only a few weeks earlier on Christmas Day. Ann was awake feeding her when Jarred came through the door carrying a cup of hot liquid and said only, ‘Try this.'
It was the first batch of hickory syrup either of us had ever tasted. The rest, as they say, is history.
It all traces back to one tree—and to the moment we stopped trying to decide what the farm should be and started paying closer attention to what was already here.
The farm taught us to question what we've stopped noticing. Curiosity lead us to the realization that the value in the land lies not only in its existing resources, but in our willingness to see familiar things a little differently.
Today, our work centers on rediscovering overlooked native plants and reimagining them into foods that help people reconnect with the landscape around them.
We never planned for this to be our farm. Now, we can't imagine it any other way.
Sometimes the wrong turn, failed idea or unexpected interruption is exactly the thing that makes you look somewhere you never would have looked before.
We bought this farm believing we knew what we were searching for.
It gave us something we never thought to look for at all.
Whether you're stuck in a plan that's no longer serving you, happily content in life, or seeking out your next adventure, we hope our story encourages you to make room for the unexpected.
You never know what might be trying to get your attention.
Founders, Arbor + Field
Field Note
Field notes
The Collection