Strawberry Fields Forever: A field trip into the future of farming

In July, our marketing coordinator Madeleine and I packed up and headed west for a field trip that was part research, part strawberry deep dive. We stopped first at the Cal Poly Strawberry Field Day, where rows of fruit framed conversations about innovation and sustainability and the future of this high maintenance crop. In California, I don’t think that there are many growers who aren’t steadily losing chemistries and facing massive challenges – the evolution of resistance is the unavoidable flipside of using lethal synthetics – but strawberry growers have maybe had one of the toughest roads.

Over the last decade, strawberry growers have been pushed into increasingly narrow margins by loss of once-reliable chemistries, rising regulatory pressures, and escalating input and labor costs. For years, methyl bromide served as the main fumigant for control of nematodes, weeds, and soil pathogens, but its phase-out forced growers to scramble for alternatives. At the same time, rules restricting fumigants, buffer zones, and stricter environmental oversight have limited where and how even still-legal chemistries can be used (and again, because of the laws of nature, the inevitable future of using a lethal chemistry is losing it to resistance). 

Meanwhile, strawberry economics also have not eased: land and labor costs keep rising, and growers must adapt even when margins are thin. In facing these pressures, many growers are turning to integrated and biological approaches—not as idealistic luxuries, but as necessary innovations to keep farming viable in the long run. 

It was to these farmers that we turned on the next leg of our journey—guided by our Director of Agronomy, José Ramirez, we made several visits that left a deep impression on me, and filled me with hope for the future. Through José’s network, we visited several strawberry growers in the Salinas region to learn how they’re growing, what they’re seeing, and why so many of them are turning toward biological products not as experiments, but as necessities.

At Ego Farms, Enrique greeted us with quiet pride. The farm’s name, he told us, is named for his eight-year old son—his reminder of why he works the land. When we asked what drives him to use biologicals like Dune, Lumina, Komens, and Continuµm, he didn’t hesitate. “Two things,” he said. “First, they work. I couldn’t use them if they didn’t. But also—we have no choice. The soils are tired.” He gestured to the ground as if speaking of an old friend. “If we want our kids to have land worth farming, we have to think differently.” Later, he and his son took Maddie and I for a walk along the dry creek bed that frames the edge of his farm. Amid the brush and vine was a beautiful hollow that Enrique hopes to turn into a place for family cookout gatherings—a living symbol of the link between land, labor, and legacy.

At another stop, we met Bulmaro, a contract grower whose fields shimmered with vitality. When I asked why he used biologicals, he simply waved his hand across the rows: “Look.” The plants themselves were his answer. When I told him how beautiful they were, he bowed his head slightly. “Gracias,” he said softly. It struck me then how personal this work is—how much a grower’s pride is tied not to output alone, but to the quiet satisfaction of nurturing something alive, something lasting.

Our final visit was with Lalo at Sunlight Farms, where every few rows of strawberries were punctuated by bright geraniums—red and pink jewels among the green. When I asked about them, he smiled. “We had a few extra spots one year, so we planted flowers. People liked them, so we kept doing it.” Now, they’re part of the farm’s signature, a small act of beauty that draws the eye and the heart. Lalo, who prefers no cameras or spotlights, said something I’ve thought about ever since: “Using biologicals is like feeding the land. And feeding the land is like feeding your family. How could you not?”

That sentiment has stayed with me as we prepare for the months ahead. At Impello, our work is rooted in this same forward-looking care—the belief that every product should solve the problems of today while protecting the potential of tomorrow. Our upcoming chitosan biopesticide, Consequence, will draw its strength from a sustainable fungal source. Our eco-farmed spirulina-derived biostimulant, Recruit, will nourish biodiversity in the soil. And Quench, our drought-resilience microbial, will help crops endure the increasing stresses of a wild climate. Each one reflects a shared philosophy: progress isn’t about quick fixes; it’s about long-term endurance—about leaving the soil and the system stronger than we found them, but not ignoring the fact that growers need tools to support their livelihood and they need them now.

It is not just the products, though. To be there for agriculture in a way that is truly meaningful will take teamwork. That is, we know we can’t do it alone and we are looking towards the future in the kind of relationships we build. Through our partnership with Agronova (more news on this to come!), we’re building the kind of company symbiosis that defines both natural ecosystems and the future of agricultural innovation—collaborative, adaptive, and regenerative. This gives us more data, more tools, more perspectives: more ways than ever to try to be there for growers. 

It’s not easy to grow strawberries anymore—the margins are thinner, the chemistries are fewer, and the risks are high. But those willing to think differently are finding their way forward. I saw it with my own eyes: thriving plants, (humbly) proud growers, soil that feels alive again. There’s nothing naïve about it. This is the real future of farming—lush, resilient, and rooted in the courage to change. Is it easy? No. Does this or any other kind of farming come with guarantees? Of course not. But when has this way of making a living ever been about ease and surety? When I asked Enrique about what was hardest about this life, he laughed and said “It is all hard. But the challenge is why I do it. These are the things that build character.”

On our way back home, Maddie and I, who spend so much time at the desk, talked about feeling rejuvenated. We were reminded so acutely of why this work matters: It’s not just about yield curves or soil assays—it’s about the people who look at a tired landscape and see possibility, who plant flowers between rows of fruit, and who name their farms after their children because they intend for the land to last that long. That’s the kind of future worth growing for.