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Just about every evening in the fall after harvest, in the winter and in the spring before planting season, Shiloh and I walk our family’s fields. Shiloh and I both need the exercise, but more importantly, I need the mental clarity that comes with the wind through my hair, the setting sun, birds chirping, deer and turkeys grabbing their last bites before dark, and the simple act of mindlessly looking for rocks. Yep, you heard that right — I’m a secret collector of rocks like a little kid. But these walks are not only about finding the coolest stones. They also help me keep an eye on how wet the fields are, make sure the tiling hasn’t washed out and notice all the other strange little things nature tends to throw our way.

I remember my grandpa walking the fields all the time. We would head down by the creek beds and he would tell me we were hunting for arrowheads. I’d watch him stoop down to grab rocks, rinse them off in the creek and call me over to admire them while he explained what they were. We found flint, quartz, shale and countless others, oohing and ahhing over every interesting shape or color. Sometimes we stuffed them into our pockets to take home, and other times we tossed them back into the field to be rediscovered another day. When we came across especially large stones, we would drag them to the edge of the field and joke that they had probably been around since the dinosaurs. Little did I realize at the time, Grandpa was also getting some free labor out of me as I helped pick and move stones.

When I went to Penn State, I no longer had open fields to wander through searching for rocks. Still, I found substitutes. The sidewalk outside Rec Hall had pieces of glass or aggregate embedded in it that sparkled under the lights at night. Walking there felt almost magical, and it meant I was only 10 minutes from my apartment. Other sidewalks around campus had their own interesting details, but the ones near the Lion Shrine were always my favorite.

Last night, before the rain moved in, Shiloh and I headed out for a quick walk. If we make the full loop around the fields, we can get a little over a mile in. One thing that always surprises me is how soft field dirt feels underfoot. Even when the ground is completely dry, walking through the fields feels like walking on thick carpet. When the fields are wet, though, it is more like stepping across a sponge. Ironically, wet fields are when I find the best stones. Yesterday I found a gorgeous piece of pink quartz and another stone with a blue tinge to it. Honestly, I only know the names of a handful of the rocks I collect; most of the time I choose them simply because they are shiny, sparkly, oddly shaped or unusual in color. My favorites are flint and quartz. In fact, I found a solid white piece of quartz on Monday and some flint on Tuesday.

Finding flint always excites me because I am constantly searching for the ultimate treasure: an arrowhead. My grandfather was unbelievably talented at finding them. Over his lifetime, he must have discovered hundreds, ranging from tiny one-inch points to pieces several inches long. It became a running joke in our family — if Grandpa was out looking for rocks, he was going to find an arrowhead. To this day, he is the only person I have ever known with that kind of talent. I have walked miles through our fields without ever spotting a stone that even resembles one, but every time I go out, I still hope I will.

I think that hope is part of why I love walking our fields so much. Shiloh and I enjoy exploring local trails and discovering new places, but there is something different about home. Walking these fields reminds me that there is always value in searching for the unknown and unexpected. Sometimes the reward is a beautiful stone. Sometimes it is a memory. And sometimes it is simply the quiet reminder that there are still things left to discover.

Submitted by Christen Clemson, a member of the Trumbull County Farm Bureau who completed her Ph.D. at Pennsylvania State University.

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