Our Story

Roots

It began with a tree.  A scruffy tree clinging to the side of a mountain.  Glossy, evergreen, lance-shaped leaves.  Scraggly limbs crusted with lichens.  Knuckled roots digging into rocky soil.  And a haunting scent in the breeze — spicy, peppery, funky, with hints of cinnamon, eucalyptus, and clove.

Let's pick some leaves and bring them home.  What could we do with them?  Can we try cooking with them?  What about making a wreath to hang on the front door for Christmas?  Let’s look up the tree in a book.  It turns out that it’s a distant cousin of the “bay” in bay rum, that aftershave that is the most timeless of men’s products — the scent of your grandfather and a thousand small-town barber shops.  Could it work in an aftershave?

Mountain

Not long before our daughter was born, we moved into a little gray house with a red door in the town of Mill Valley, at the foot of Mount Tamalpais.  Known and loved by locals as “Mount Tam,” Mount Tamalpais (“tam-al-PIE-iss”) rises 2,742 feet above San Francisco Bay.  Stands of Douglas Fir stretch north along its rolling ridges.  Pockets of old-growth Redwoods endure in its deeper valleys.  Columns of Monterey Cypress march along old carriage roads.  Groves of California Bay Laurel shelter along the banks of hidden creeks.  Most mornings, fog rolls in off the Pacific Ocean to cloak its western slopes in silence.  The mountain is home to bobcats, coyotes, quail, deer, hawks, salmon, and perhaps the occasional mountain lion.  From towns huddled in the valleys below, trails wind their way up through forests, across chaparral and grasslands, to rocky peaks overlooking Marin County and the waters beyond.

Birth

Starting when she was seven days old, we took our daughter hiking nearly every day on those trails.  Snuggled against our chests, she would sleep.  But as she grew, she awoke to the world around her.  Opening her eyes, she was entranced by leaves fluttering in the breeze, clouds sailing across the sky, and patterns of light and shadow dappling the forest floor.  She listened to bird calls, the far-off murmur of the sea, and the sound of our voices as we taught her the names of the rocks and plants and animals.  She felt the rough bark of tree trunks, the fuzzy undersides of leaves, and smooth cool stones.  Under her sniffing nose, we held wildflowers and crushed pine needles.  As do all parents, we awoke to the world anew.

Of course, we took her to see the scruffy tree clinging to the side of the mountain.  We plucked a leaf, rubbed it between our fingers, held it to her nose, then held it again to our own.  And again we thought, could this be captured?  Not just the smell of this tree, but all of it?  Is there a way to take the mountain home?  A way to share it?

Name

We are fortunate to have our pick of trailheads right on our doorstep — Dipsea, Dias Ridge, Tennessee Valley, Oakwood, Miwok, Sun Trail, Muir Beach, Muir Woods, Deer Park, Mountain Home. But sometimes we're itching for something different, some new scenery, someplace we haven't been in a while.  And that's when we say, "Let's go afield."  That might mean something higher up Mount Tam — Bootjack, Pantoll, Rock Springs, Ridgecrest.  Or something on the north side or up along the coast — Lake Lagunitas, Sky Oaks, Fairfax, Stinson Beach.  If we really want to go afield for the day, there's Western Marin and Point Reyes — an outing that more likely than not will include oysters for lunch.

Of course, the word "afield" has the more figurative meaning of "out there" or "far-fetched," which is a pretty good fit for the cockamamie idea to make stuff out of the plants we find in the woods and on our local mountain.  Hence the name "The Afield Co." — a tribute to the possibilities of outdoor discoveries not far from home. 

Growth

After hours and days and months of collecting (leaves, needles, berries, flowers, bark, branches, roots), experimenting (tinctures, infusions, decoctions, and near-disastrous steam distillation with a homemade still), testing (spreadsheets, test tubes, beakers, droppers, clinking clutter of Sharpie-labeled bottles), and trying again (down the drain and onto the next) — finally, we had it.  Formula number 67.  A really good aftershave; something to share.

And then, 2020.  Suddenly, hand sanitizer was in short supply, thanks in part to a bunch of bozos who bought it all up to flip at a profit.  Drug store shelves were even empty where the rubbing alcohol once was.  People were scared.  We were too.  But by then we had an industrial alcohol user’s permit and a relationship with a trustworthy ethanol supplier.  So we decided to make hand sanitizer to give to our neighbors and to scrappy local businesses.  We figured that it may as well smell good and remind people of the natural world that was quietly waiting out there, outside their quarantine walls.  So we took formula number 67 and reformulated it into an alcohol-based hand sanitizer gel, and, later, a hand sanitizer spray.  And we made a big batch of it and put it in bottles.  And then we gave it away.

And then, later, people started to reach out to us after they'd happened across our hand sanitizer on the counter at a local shop or restaurant.  They were curious.  "Where can I buy that stuff?  What else do you make?"  And we were off from there, heading further and further afield.

— Chrissy & Alex