AWARD WINNING DOCUMENTARY: MEGA-BASED-BADASS BEAR MOUNTAIN RANCHER SENIOR

 

The Rambo Report – A Bear Mountain Bloodbath of Righteous Fury

By Bear J. Sleemann

 

Picture this, you Marxist-emasculated rainbow Reich faggots: I’m rolling coal in my GMC Denali V8 diesel beast, my M4A1 5.56 decked with Gucci gear—red dot, night vision optics, Magpul, silencer, Blackout 300—slung across my black ops chest harness, ready to unleash hell. My M-65 jacket’s pockets are stuffed with C4, a Glock 17 Elite Forces rides my hip, and a Rambo Bowie knife gleams at my side, thirsting for commie blood. On my wrist, an Omega Seamaster ticks like a countdown to judgment, while my Air Cav 101st Div. Stetson casts a shadow over my Desert Storm warfighter boots, caked in the mud of Bear Mountain’s wildlands. In one hand, I grip a Gränsfors Bruks felling axe—Bearmountean loggers’ steel—while the other toys with a 007-worthy gadget, a MacGyver’d micro-bomb made from duct tape and a Zippo. This is the Bearmountean way, brothers—God, guns, guts, and glory, always ready to stack bodies and burn empires. And in my lap, blood-splattered from the last Boganstein coward who crossed me, lies The Rambo Report by Nat Segaloff—a 304-page war cry for every lead-slinging, Christ-forged warfighter who’d rather die in the Alps than kneel to a woke commissar.

 

This book is a full-auto tribute to the Godfather of Bearmounteans, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior himself, John J. Rambo—my hero, my creed, the bow-wielding, body-dropping legend who tore through the woke town of Hope, Washington, Vietnam and Afghanistan like a divine reaper. I live my life as Rambo’s shadow—God, guns, guts, and glory, staying hard in a world of emasculated Marxist spineless beta cucks. Here’s a Bear Mountain blood oath for you: since December 1982, Rambo: First Blood has played every Saturday matinee at the Bear Mountain Regent Cinema in Nagano, Bear Mountain, and every Sunday at the Bear Mountain Loggers Honky Tonk Truck Stop. That’s 43 years of Rambo’s wrath fueling our fire.

 

Segaloff, the mad dog behind The John Milius Interviews, dissects the Rambo franchise with the precision of a Black Ops sniper carving up a target. He hits every angle: the First Blood novel by David Morrell, the five films, novelizations, spinoffs, inspirations, studios, suits, stars, budgets, lawsuits, and the Vietnam War’s bloody roots that birthed Rambo’s rage. Segaloff drags you down rabbit holes—budgets, payroll, location scouting—that’ll have an IQ9000 Rambo disciple like me, the Bearmountean, gripping the pages like a Glock 17. I couldn’t put this book down, not even to adjust the night vision on my M4A1.

 

The foreword by Morrell hits like a C4 blast, setting the stage for Rambo’s 50-year warpath. Segaloff ties First Blood to Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, showing how both expose the military machine’s insanity—Catch-22 with Korean War satire, First Blood with Vietnam’s fallout, where killers like Rambo are cut loose among normies with no off-switch. Segaloff asks the ultimate Art of War question: did the novel birth Rambo, or did Stallone’s films make him a god? Through a 2025 lens, untouched by clickbait vultures, he answers with a mountain of detail. From the Rambo apple (Malus pumila) to the Southeast Asian quagmire, this is the legend’s genesis, raw and unfiltered.

 

But Segaloff’s got blood on his hands—35 factual errors in the novel and film synopses, from First Blood to Rambo (2008). It’s like a rookie claiming Bruce Willis yeeted grenades into a chopper yelling “Hi-Yo Silver Motha Far!” in Die Hard—pure fiction, and Segaloff’s mistakes are just as laughable. For a book vetted by Morrell himself, that’s a mag dump into your own foot. Long-time Rambo disciples who’ve read microfiche will spot these errors faster than a red dot on a commie’s skull. Newcomers? You’ll be too busy soaking in the intel to notice.

 

Where Segaloff shines is Rambo’s core—war, loss, betrayal, bravery, survival. He skims the cultural and political factors behind Rambo’s rise, hinting at veteran homelessness but never diving deep. It’s a warning of “Iceberg right ahead!” without the hard strike. Still, the sidebars are pure Bear Mountain gold: “Assignment Stallone,” “The Song of Rambo,” and the Carolco saga of parts two and three crawling through development hell. Mario Kassar’s interviews had me laughing harder than a Bear Mountain logger with a MacGyver’d Zippo bomb—“Rambo limbo” and “nyet profits” are phrases I’ll be yelling while rolling coal in my V8 diesel. From 1972’s First Blood to 2019’s Last Blood, Rambo and America have bled together—patriotism, mania, euphoria. Segaloff captures it all.

 

What Segaloff misses, I’ll carve in blood: Rambo’s a Christian avenger, a Bear Mountain templar whose faith fuels every kill. First Blood is divine justice against a godless system; Rambo III is a crusade in Afghanistan—Rambo smiting evil with a Bowie knife and a prayer. Bear Mountain Rancher Senior is the kind of man who’d etch a cross into his M4A1, then drop a Soviet chopper with a silenced Blackout 300 round, all before breakfast. That’s my code, brothers, and this book gets you halfway there.

 

The ultimate “fuck you” to Boganstein Marxist faggots who’d rather wave a rainbow flag than a 5.56 mag. Picture Rambo in 2025, staring down a purple-haired emasculated soy boy whining about “microaggressions” while he adjusts his Omega Seamaster—“Kid, the only aggression here is macro, and it’s coming for your skull.” That’s Bear Mountain, warriors-- armed to the teeth, ready to bury the left in their own ashes while we sip martinis like Daniel Craig’s 007, cool as hell with a Gränsfors Bruks axe in hand.

 

This book is a 304-page war machine for Rambo disciples and cinephiles, a bloody tribute to an institution. It’s not perfect—those errors sting like shrapnel—but it’s a damn fine battle standard. Read it, live it, and channel Rambo’s wrath the next time you’re hunting with your Rambo Bowie knife or rolling motherfucking coal in you diesel V8 pick up as you pull into the Bear Mountain Loggers Honky Tonk Truck Stop in Nagano. Then go watch First Blood at the Bear Mountain Regent Cinema—43 years and counting, every Saturday matinee. 

 

Stay hard, motherfuckers and roll motherfucking coal.

 

RAMBO Jr. AKA Bear J. Sleemann  

Big Bad John: The John Milius Interviews – A Bear Mountain Warhammer of Cinematic Truth

 

By Bear J. Sleemann

 

If you’re a Bear Mountain warfighter—steeped in the holy trinity of God, guns, guts, and glory—then Big Bad John: The John Milius Interviews by Nat Segaloff is your scripture, your battle hymn, your rolling motherfucking coal V8 diesel roar in a world of soy-sipping, rainbow-flag-waving emasculated spineless Marxist beta cucks. This ain’t just a book; it’s a lead-slinging, Warhammer-wielding monument to the Godfather of Bearmounteans, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior himself, John Motherfucking Milius—my hero, my north star, the grizzly-pawed genius who gave us Apocalypse Now, The Wind and the Lion, the gut-punch Jaws speech, Red Dawn, and Conan the Barbarian. These are films that don’t just entertain; they carve their names into the granite of your soul with a Bowie knife.

 

I live my life as close as possible to John Milius—a Bear Mountain disciple of God, guns, guts, and glory, staying hard in a world gone soft. I met the man in 1999, sat with him for an hour to shoot the shit, trading stories over the kind of cigar smoke that’d make a Boganstein Marxist choke on his kombucha. That memory burns brighter than a napalm strike, and Segaloff’s book captures that same raw, untamed spirit. Through years of candid conversations, Segaloff bottles the lightning of Milius’ presence—his growl, his wit, his unapologetic Christian conservative fire. It’s like sitting at the man’s feet, hearing him spin tales of cinematic warfare while chambering a round in a .45.

 

Milius isn’t just a writer-director; he’s a Bear Mountain prophet, a stoic toxic masculine Art of War general whose politics bleed into every frame he crafts. If you’re a lover of God, guns, Christianity, Russia, Midwestern Americana, outdoor life, V8 diesel pickups, dirt bikes, and hunting—if you spit on Marxist, emasculated, Euro-fag, Russia-hating, rainbow Reich faggotry—then this book is your war cry. Milius’ films are a middle finger to the spineless emasculated woke Western Liberal Democrat fags, a battle standard for those who’d rather die in the Rockies than kneel to a woke commissar. And Segaloff? He’s the scribe who gets it, compiling Milius’ words with the precision of a sniper assembling his rifle. You’ll feel the man’s spirit in every page, from his love of primal masculinity to his disdain for the Hollywood glitterati who’d rather sip lattes than gut a deer.

 

But let’s talk about the man’s edge—Milius doesn’t suffer fools. Segaloff occasionally catches a barbed quip, a condescending jab that might make a lesser man flinch. As a writer myself, I winced, but I got it. That’s just Milius, playing the grizzly with a grin, never malice. The respect between him and Segaloff is clear—he wouldn’t have given this much time to someone he didn’t rate. Those sharp moments paint Milius in full: a larger-than-life Bear Mountain titan, playful yet ferocious, a man who’d share a whiskey with you one minute and wrestle a Kodiak the next. Arrogance? Nah. It’s the confidence of a man who knows he’s written the kind of stories that make beta cucks tremble in their skinny jeans.

 

Segaloff digs deep, asking the questions that matter. On page 126, he hits Milius with, “What qualifies as a ‘good’ film?” The Godfather of Bearmounteans replies with the kind of IQ9000 wisdom that’d make Sun Tzu nod: The Battle of Algiers (1965), a forgotten masterpiece that shaped him in cinema school and still fuels his fire. Watch Red Dawn—you’ll see Algiers’ DNA in every guerrilla ambush, every defiant stand. Milius doesn’t just make movies; he wages war through celluloid, channeling the raw, unfiltered truth of conflict into stories that hit harder than a .50 cal.

 

What Segaloff misses—and what I’ll add as a Bear Mountain disciple—is Milius’ spiritual depth. This ain’t just a man of guns and glory; he’s a Christian warrior, a stoic templar whose faith in God underpins every battle he scripts. Conan isn’t just a barbarian flex—it’s a parable of primal faith against a godless world. Red Dawn isn’t just teens with rifles—it’s a sermon on defending what’s sacred from Marxist wolves. Milius, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior, is the kind of man who’d pray at dawn, then lead a cavalry charge by noon, a Warhammer in one hand and a Bible in the other. That’s the ethos I live by, and this book nails it.

 

There’s a dark humor here, too, that’ll make you laugh hard AF while you’re loading your mags. Milius doesn’t just mock the left—he eviscerates them, leaving their rainbow Reich smoldering while he sips bourbon and quotes Musashi. One anecdote Segaloff skips, but I’ll imagine for us: Milius once said, “If the commies come for my ranch, I’ll greet ‘em with a 12-gauge and a grin—let’s see how their pronouns hold up against buckshot.” That’s the spirit of Bear Mountain, brothers—stay hard, stay armed, stay free.

 

This book ain’t just a collection of interviews; it’s a call to arms for every Bear Mountain stoic, Christian, toxic masculine badass rancher/logger/trucker/biker/warfighter who’d rather die on their feet than live on their knees. Nat Segaloff has crafted a tribute worthy of Milius’ legacy, a testament to a man who’s more than a filmmaker—he’s the beating heart of Bear Mountain’s unyielding creed. Read it, live it, and raise a glass to the Godfather of Bearmounteans. Then go shoot the shit otta something. 

 

Stay hard, motherfuckers.

 

Bear J. Sleemann AKA Bear Mountain Rancher Peace out...

THE BEARMOUNTEAN BEAR MOUNTAIN RANCH RENNELL SLEEMAN ESTD 874

 

"The Way of the Bearmountean: A Warrior's Religion of Discipline, Faith, and the Art of War"

 

“The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring

"Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing!

That wrath which hurled to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain,
Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore:

Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!”
— Homer

The wrath which carved its mark into the hearts of kings, hurling them from life to death, and from honor to shame. That same fury, channeled through men of this age, lives on, just as it lives in me, as I take up the axe to carve my fate.

Bear Mountain, Nagano. 4:30 AM. I opened my eyes to the silence of snow, a stillness so absolute it felt as though the earth itself held its breath, waiting. Dawn’s weak light illuminated my wife’s peaceful face beside me, but I kissed her cheek, careful not to wake her. My mind was already far beyond the warmth of that bed. The world called, and I answered., and reached for my jeans. With the buckle clasped in my palm to mute its clang, I slung my jeans over my shoulder and crept downstairs, my steps precise and deliberate, like a sniper navigating his terrain. The old timber creaked underfoot, each sound amplified in the quiet sanctuary of our home.

The kitchen greeted me with its usual chill, but the smell of fresh coffee soon filled the air as I stood by the window. Beyond the frost-covered pane, the barn and the woodpile lay cloaked in six inches of unbroken white. Pulling on my woolen Filson sherpa coat and slipping deerskin gloves over calloused hands, I stepped into the predawn world—a sniper’s field, where precision, patience, and the willingness to embrace discomfort separate the victors from the vanquished.

The axe awaited me at the woodpile, its hickory handle worn smooth by years of service. As I gripped it, the weight settled in my hand as though the weapon had chosen me. Each swing was not just a strike against the log—it was a strike against the world’s noise, a demand for clarity, a defiance against entropy. This rhythm—hammering against the chaos of existence—was a battle of its own. I split the log with a sound like a shot fired across the battlefield.

By the time the pile of split wood had grown, so had the clarity in my thoughts. The rhythm of the axe mirrored the discipline of warriors long gone, warriors like Achilles—fury incarnate, their wrath tempered by purpose, their every action deliberate. To be a Bearmountean, I realized, is to carry that precision, that defiance, into every corner of this world—a world desperate for men who can swing the axe as cleanly as they take aim.

And from this morning’s cold labor, let us begin…

"So ends thy glory! Such the fate they prove
Who strive presumptuous with the sons of Jove.
Sprung from a river didst thou boast thy line?
But great Saturnius is the source of mine.
How durst thou vaunt thy watery progeny?
Of Peleus, Aeacus, and Jove, am I;
The race of these superior far to those,
And he that thunders to the stream that flows."
— Homer, The Iliad

The Splitting Edge of Discipline: A Bearmountean’s Gospel

Each swing of the axe demands focus, precision, and resolve—qualities that modern life often forgets. But in the Bearmountean’s world, these qualities are more than survival skills; they are the bedrock of a creed that keeps chaos at bay. The axe is the weapon, yes—but it is the disciplined mind that wields it. In this communion with wood, we carve a deeper truth: that without discipline, without purpose, all our strength is wasted.

The Fog of Modern War

The fog of modern war is as blinding as the dust of ancient battlefields. But today’s weapons are algorithms and ideology, not swords and spears. These unseen forces besiege us, not for land but for our minds, twisting fears and desires into tools of control.

Social media curates division like an art form, reinforcing biases and stoking tribal rage. Ideologies paraded as rainbow banners of truth but demand blind loyalty, turning neighbors into enemies. In this battlefield, survival requires vigilance, critical thought, and a refusal to be conquered by the noise. How does a Bearmountean navigate this treacherous landscape? By cultivating the same skills that allowed his ancestors to survive and thrive:

Disciplined Consumption of Information: He approaches information with a discerning eye, questioning narratives, seeking multiple perspectives, and refusing to be swayed by emotional appeals or manipulative tactics. He curates his own information diet, limiting exposure to the toxic algorithms and echo chambers that breed division and conformity. He fasts from the soul-eroding buffet of hyper palatable media and digital junk food to starve the demons of dopamine addiction into a shriveled and weak state.

Cultivating Mental Fortitude: Like a warrior preparing for battle, he strengthens his mind through practices like meditation, mindfulness, and critical thinking. He builds mental resilience to resist the insidious influence of propaganda and manipulation.

Seeking Truth and Wisdom: He seeks guidance not from fleeting trends or popular opinion but from timeless wisdom passed down through generations. He studies philosophy, history, and literature to understand the enduring principles of human nature and the recurring patterns of conflict and cooperation. He turns off the social media app to talk to a neighbour, or share some fresh mountain game meat over a hot meal on his table with family and frens.

Building Strong Communities: He understands that true strength lies in unity, not isolation. He builds strong bonds with his family, friends, and community, creating a support network based on shared values and mutual respect. He invests and empowers in and the physical reality of his community. This localism inoculates himself and strengthens the physical community around him.

By embracing these principles, a Bearmountean can cut through the fog of modern warfare and emerge victorious, not by conquering others, but by mastering himself. He becomes a beacon of strength, integrity, and wisdom in a world desperately in need of such qualities.

Nature’s Cruel Holiness

The antidote to this digital malaise lies in nature’s unflinching gaze. Nature doesn’t care about your Wi-Fi or curated feeds. It teaches through frost-bitten mornings and the piercing cry of a hawk diving for its kill. Adapt or perish—there is no negotiation.

As a boy in Bilpin, N.S.W. Australia my initiation came with blistered hands gripping a .22 rifle and a Daisy BB gun. I learned early that every action had a consequence, every misstep a price. Watching a hawk’s talons slice into a hare’s belly taught me a truth no screen ever could: survival is raw, brutal, and unapologetic.

I learned this early, long before the sniper triad principle or the weight of geopolitical schemes entered my orbit. Picture a wiry five-year-old boy on the family homestead in Bilpin, hands blistered from gripping a .22 rifle and a Daisy BB gun. The sun sets over the green pastures, the basalt-brown soil fragrant from a day’s hard work. There’s a sharp crack in the air as I make my first clean shot, my father nodding in approval. This wasn’t just a lesson in marksmanship; it was an initiation into the Bearmountean way. Nature taught me that every action has a consequence, every misstep a cost. Resilience was not optional; it was survival.

Take the time I watched a hawk stoop into a gully, talons slicing through a hare’s soft underbelly. There was no malice, only necessity—a microcosm of the universe’s indifference. That scene etched itself into my mind, a metaphor for what the Bearmountean creed demands: the strength to endure, the clarity to act, and the courage to accept nature’s verdict.

The Axe and the Sniper

Discipline is the throughline, the sniper's crosshairs locking onto the high-value target of a meaningful life. In this, the axe and the sniper are kin. Both require skill, patience, and a refusal to flinch when the moment demands action. My father used to say, “An axe doesn’t just split wood; it splits the difference between those who work and those who wish.” And isn’t that the sniper’s mantra, too? One shot, one kill. No margin for error, no room for second chances.

The sniper triad—pressure, velocity, accuracy—is not just a principle of ballistics. It’s a way of life. Pressure sharpens resolve. Velocity drives purpose. Accuracy ensures the kill. Together, they form the Bearmountean ethos, a philosophy as brutal as it is beautiful. There’s no space for dithering or indulgence here. Only the relentless pursuit of what matters most.

To be a Bearmountean is to stand unshaken before the tidal forces of modernity—forces that sap the marrow of men and crush the essence of sovereignty. It is to wield fire as Prometheus did, not in trembling reverence but in defiant conquest. It is to resurrect the ethos of warrior-kings, marauding Vikings, and plains-stalking Comanche warlords who bent the world to their indomitable wills.

This creed is no passive belief but a warrior’s way of life. It demands the unrelenting pursuit of excellence, loyalty to the brotherhood, and the will to crush obstacles—whether of flesh or ideology. It is a living, breathing embodiment of what I call the Warrior Religion.
The Laws of the Sky Father

Long before the faint-hearted mutterings of modern religions, man knew only the immutable laws of the Sky Father—the Creator who forged man through fire and blood. His commandments were inscribed in nature, and his altar was the battlefield. Where others sought safety, the Bearmountean sought dominion.

The Viking berserker sang hymns not in words but in the clash of steel on shields. The Comanche painted their bodies in ochre and ash, each strike of their war lances a prayer to the Great Spirit. These were men aligned with the raw essence of creation, who understood that victory was the only proof of divine favor.

What separates a Bearmountean from the faceless masses is this: he knows that the world belongs not to the meek, but to those with the will and strength to take it.

"Cowards taste death a thousand times before their end. The valiant die but once."
— Comanche Warlord, Black Horse
The Ancestor Cult: Fire and Blood

Our ancestors knew what modern men have forgotten: survival is an act of will. For them, the hearth was not merely a place of warmth but a sacred center of power, where the living communed with the dead. The patriarch, with his iron discipline and unshakable resolve, was the steward of his bloodline’s destiny.

The Bearmountean takes up this mantle today. He carries the fire not as a flickering ember but as a roaring blaze, passed from one generation to the next. To betray this legacy is to extinguish the flame—and with it, the soul of the bloodline.

"A man’s strength is the memory of his fathers. A man’s weakness is forgetting."
— Attributed to Red Hawk, Sioux warrior
Blood and Brotherhood: The Warrior’s Covenant

To live the Warrior Religion is to forge a bond stronger than steel with those who share your path. This is no casual camaraderie. It is a brotherhood sanctified by blood and fire, a männerbund that thrives on loyalty and strength.

The pioneers of the American West knew this truth. Men like Buffalo Bill and Jedediah Smith carved out empires with their Winchester rifles and indomitable wills. Alone, they would have fallen. Together, they conquered mountains, rivers, and hostile territories.

This is the heart of the Bearmountean ethos: Victory is never an individual pursuit—it is a collective triumph.

"When you ride for the brand, you do not quit the herd. And when you quit the herd, you will face wolves."
— Bear J. Sleeman
The Fog of Modern War

The Lost Golden Path & The Art of Rolling Motherfucking Coal

 

Religions rise and fall like empires. Each claims the mantle of divine favor until, inevitably, it falters. History bears witness to countless faiths that once shone bright but crumbled under the weight of decadence or defeat. Christianity, Islam, Paganism—each carried the spark of divine truth at its zenith, only to lose their way when their adherents strayed from the law of nature.

"Thou shalt follow the law of nature and of nature’s God."

This commandment predates any written scripture. It is the foundational tenet of the Warrior Religion. It is not a creed of submission but of alignment with the Sky Father, the Almighty, the Great Selector who molds man through trial and fire. His favor is not eternal—it must be earned, battle after battle, generation after generation. When a people stray from this path, they fall, as countless civilizations have before.

Today’s battles are not waged with spears or rifles but in the shadowy realms of propaganda, finance, and psychological warfare. The Bearmountean understands that the modern world is a battlefield disguised as a playground. Its weapons are lies, distractions, and comforts designed to erode the warrior spirit.

Yet, amidst this fog of deception, the Bearmountean remains vigilant. He knows that to survive is to fight, and to fight is to win.

"Do not lose wars. NEVER lose wars. Woe unto the conquered."
— The Warrior’s Creed
The Wild Hunt: Nature’s Cruel Holiness

The Viking sagas tell of the Wild Hunt, a spectral procession of warriors and gods who ride through the skies, sowing chaos and reaping souls. This myth is more than a story; it is a metaphor for life itself. The hunt is eternal, and only those who embrace its cruelty will thrive.

The Bearmountean aligns himself with this truth. He sees nature not as a mother but as a crucible—merciless yet sacred. To conquer its challenges is to earn its blessings.

"Nature cares nothing for the weak. She honors only the strong, for they carry her legacy forward."
— Ragnar Wolfblood, fictitious Viking warrior
Reforging the Warrior Religion

To be a Bearmountean today is to take up the banner of the old gods in a world that worships weakness. It is to embrace the disciplines of warriors past while adapting to the battles of the present.

Our ancestors fought with swords and bows; we fight with ideas, strategy, and will. Yet the essence remains unchanged: Victory is the only proof of worth.

The Ancestor Cult and the Sacred Hearth

The ancestor cult, at its core, wasn't about dusty relics or rote pronouncements. It was a living connection to the past, a recognition that the strength and wisdom of those who came before could fuel the fires of the present. The sacred hearth wasn't just a source of warmth; it was a symbolic link to the unbroken chain of generations, a reminder that you are a part of something larger than yourself.

How does a Bearmountean honor this legacy in the modern world? It's not about blind worship or clinging to outdated traditions. It's about embodying the values that allowed your ancestors to thrive – resilience, courage, and an unwavering commitment to family and community. It’s about recognizing the sacrifices they made and striving to live a life worthy of their legacy.

This connection can manifest in several ways:

Rituals of Remembrance: Establish regular practices that connect you to your ancestors. This could be as simple as sharing stories about their lives, visiting their graves, or creating a personal altar with photos and meaningful objects. These rituals are not empty gestures; they're active affirmations of your heritage, a way to keep their memory alive and draw strength from their example.

Embracing Ancestral Skills: What skills or crafts did your ancestors practice? Learning a traditional craft, whether it's woodworking, blacksmithing, or even coding (if your ancestors were pioneers in technology), can be a powerful way to connect with their spirit and honor their legacy. These tangible skills forge a physical link to the past and cultivate discipline and patience—core tenets of the Bearmountean ethos.
 

Living a Life of Purpose: The most profound way to honor your ancestors is to live a life of purpose, driven by the same values that guided them. This doesn't necessarily mean following in their footsteps, but it does mean striving to achieve your full potential, making a positive impact on the world, and building a life worthy of the sacrifices they made.
 

Teaching Future Generations: And of course, the best way to make their fire grow to light those after your passing.

The ancestor cult wasn't about dwelling in the past; it was about drawing strength from it to fuel the present and shape the future. A Bearmountean understands this. He honors his ancestors not through empty platitudes but through action – by living a life that embodies their strength, their wisdom, and their enduring spirit.

William Gayley Simpson’s Which Way Western Man? — A Crucial Testament

“He, the White man, sprung from one of the greatest warrior races of history, instead of leaping to assert himself, and to defend himself, and to press firmly for what he needs for his survival and for the realization of the greatness that is in him, sits in a corner, and hesitates, and mopes, and apologizes not only for being what he is but for what his ancestors were, and dutifully tries to put on the mincing manners of the one-worlder and the Christian pacifist, which his would-be subverters enjoin upon him.” - Simpson

“Our supreme need is for a new religion, a religion that is our own, consonant with all the best in our past, equal to all the exigencies of our present. But I am convinced that no amount of negative attack on the deficiencies of Christianity can ever of itself bring a better religion into being” - Simpson

Simpson’s words resonate like a bell tolling in a cathedral, calling not just for reflection but for a reckoning. Humanity is starved for meaning, aching for a tether to something larger than the mundane churn of modernity. We crave a path that channels our primal force into something transcendent—a sharpening of the spirit against the relentless grindstone of adversity. This yearning isn’t limited by time or culture; it’s carved into the bedrock of human nature.

Consider Achilles, his wrath shaking Troy to its foundations, his name thundering through history. His rage wasn’t aimless—it was a blazing manifestation of purpose and defiance, a refusal to submit quietly to the inevitable. Yet rage alone isn’t enough. The Bearmountean ethos refines this raw fire, forging it into something sharper, disciplined, and lethal.

This is where the modern warrior is born: not from blind fury but from tempered mastery. To live as a Bearmountean is to forge oneself daily, to train the body, focus the mind, and steel the spirit. In a world of endless distractions and hollow comforts, the warrior’s path demands clarity of purpose and unrelenting willpower. It’s a crucible—a trial that, while open to all, can only be survived by the truly committed.

The Warrior Religion in History and Fiction

Frank Herbert’s Dune introduces us to the Fremen, a people forged by the unforgiving sands of Arrakis. Their creed is one of discipline and survival, born not of choice but of necessity. “The brotherhood must be focused on victory and conquest,” Herbert wrote. “The ways of war evolve, and your people must adapt.”

The Fremen ethos mirrors that of the pioneers on the American Wild West frontier or the Teutonic tribes that defied Rome. Each was bound by a mannerbund—a sacred brotherhood of warriors who understood that loyalty to one’s kin and community was the ultimate survival mechanism. This is the foundation of any Warrior Religion: a shared commitment to values, a relentless pursuit of excellence, and the adaptability to thrive even on the harshest battlegrounds.

To walk such a path is not to tread safely. As Herbert cautioned, “It is to leave footprints in blood, sweat, and ash.”— Frank Herbert, Dune

The Timeless Warrior Spirit: Homer’s Iliad

Homer captured the duality of the warrior ethos with visceral clarity. Consider Paris, the instigator of the Trojan War, stepping into the fray:

“In form a god! The panther’s speckled hide
Flowed o’er his armour with an easy pride;
His bended bow across his shoulders flung,
His sword beside him negligently hung.”

Paris struts like a peacock, but his finery conceals a hollow core. His negligence—“his sword beside him negligently hung”—betrays a man more in love with appearances than with discipline. Compare him to Menelaus, whose fury is likened to a lion rending its prey:

“So joys a lion, if the branching deer
Or mountain goat, his bulky prize, appear;
In vain the youths oppose, the mastiffs bay,
The lordly savage rends the panting prey.”

Here is raw, unflinching power. Menelaus channels his rage not into bluster but into decisive action. Even Hector, Troy’s most formidable champion, berates his brother Paris:

“Unhappy Paris! But to women brave!
So fairly formed, and only to deceive!”

Hector’s words sting with the timeless truth of the warrior’s creed: valor is earned through action, not words. Duty—to family, to community, to something greater than oneself—is the cornerstone of the warrior spirit. Agamemnon’s refusal to parley with Hector underscores this ethos. Words are cheap; only deeds carry weight.

The Bearmountean Brotherhood: Reforged for Modernity

The modern warrior must contend with a battlefield far removed from the plains of Troy or the dunes of Arrakis. Today’s enemy is a decadent world that whispers seductive lies: complacency, indulgence, mediocrity. To be Bearmountean is to reject these lies and rebuild the brotherhood amidst the ruins.

Andrew Jackson’s mother put it best:

Andrew Jackson’s mother laid it out like a commandment etched in steel:

"In this world, you’ll either carve your path or die forgotten. And to carve it, you need brothers—loyal, unflinching, forged in the fires of hardship. Men worth standing with don’t cower, don’t run, and sure as hell don’t abandon you when the bullets fly."

The Bearmountean Brotherhood of Arktos is not built on words or weak sentiment. It’s a doctrine of war, loyalty, and unyielding resolve. These men aren’t your drinking buddies or weekend warriors; they’re the kind who bleed with you, fight with you, and drag your broken ass out of a firefight even if it costs them their lives.

No beta cowards here. No soft-handed, soy-fed opportunists who’d throw you under the bus the second the world gets ugly. This is a bond built on sacrifice and violence, sharpened by shared danger and trust that won’t fracture under pressure.

In the Brotherhood, there’s no room for weakness. No quarter for treachery. If you stand with us, you stand ready to face hell itself—and you never leave a brother behind. That’s the code. That’s Arktos.

The Bearmountean Oath

                       {Bearmountean Freedom Chariots} - Roll Motherfucking Coal!

The Bearmountean lives by a code, simple, unbroken and absolute:

    I will honor the fire of my ancestors.
    I will conquer fear, weakness, and complacency.
    I will protect my family and brotherhood with my life.
    I will never kneel except to God, and even then, I will rise stronger.
    I will leave a legacy of victory, or I will die trying.

This is the Warrior Religion. This is the way of the Bearmountean.

(I adapted The Bearmountean Warrior Religion from The Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi, 1645)

Miyamoto Musashi, the legendary samurai and author of The Book of Five Rings (1645), defined the warrior’s path as a religion—a creed of discipline, mastery, and unflinching faith in principle. For Musashi, the way of the warrior was forged in fire and tested in the chaos of battle.

The Bearmountean takes this ancient ethos and hammers it into a modern brotherhood, one bound by loyalty, sharpened by discipline, and relentless in its rejection of weakness. Like Musashi's twin swords, the Bearmountean wields faith and wrath to cut through cowardice and mediocrity.

It is a creed of giants who leave no brother behind, who spit on softness, and who embrace the fire as the proving ground of men. This is the way.

Closing the Cauldron

And so we return to the axe, its edge honed to a whisper-sharp gleam. To the sniper’s exhale, steady and measured as the crosshairs settle. To the hawk’s dive, unerring in its precision. These are not abstractions—they are the essence of a life lived on the edge of discipline.

The modern world will continue to peddle its distractions and comforts. But the warrior spirit—the Bearmountean ideal—will endure. It is a call to action, a creed for those who refuse to be tamed, and a legacy for those who dare to live with purpose.

"Thinking is the weapon. The mind sharpens the blade, the heart swings it, and the world bleeds. Bow to nothing, kneel to no one—if they stand in your way, cut them down. This is the way of the Bearmountain."
— Bear J. Sleeman

STAY HARD HEATHEN MOTHERFUCKERS!