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!

 

RED, WHITE & WARHAMMERED - A COWBOYS MUSINGS FROM THE FORNICATORIUM

A Cowboys Musings from the Fonicatorium, Bear Mountain Ranch

"Do you think our ancestors forged empires and conquered wild frontiers by sipping soy lattes, silencing dissent like spineless Machiavellian eunuchs, or flexing pecs from the safety of a couch? Hell no. They carved their path through blood and chaos with fists of iron and wills sharper than battle axes, heavier than warhammers, and deadlier than a recurve bow." – Bear J. Sleeman

This morning, at 4:30 a.m., the mountain is a battlefield. My breath hangs in the frozen air, and the axe in my hands meets the timber with a sound that echoes through the dark like a war drum. Snow whirls in the beam of my headlamp, a fleeting reminder of the storm’s indifference. This isn’t about splitting wood—it’s about splitting weakness. Each swing tempers my body, sharpens my mind, and forges the edge I’ll need when war calls. Rain, hail, or blizzard, I stand against the storm, not because I have to, but because I choose to. Discipline is the weapon that ensures survival. Weakness is the enemy that guarantees death.

Here, on Bear Mountain Ranch, the mist rolls in like restless spirits over the snow-capped Great Northern Alps, settling into the ravine below. The scent of fresh-cut timber lingers, mingling with the cold November air. As I sit to write, warmed by the fire of my own making, my thoughts drift to the world beyond these peaks—a chaotic, collapsing mess compared to this fortress of solitude and discipline.

This morning’s news hit like a battering ram: Biden and NATO have authorized long-range U.S. ATACMS missile strikes deep into Moscow. Civilian Russians lie in the crosshairs, and President Putin’s response was swift. Russia has declared war against NATO and the USSA, invoking its doctrine to justify the deployment of hypersonic SATAN III ICBMs, each capable of unleashing 1,000 kilotons of nuclear devastation. The Marxist West teeters on the brink of annihilation, yet most men sit idle, softened by their creature comforts, blind to the wolves circling their gates.

Discipline is the sniper’s triad—pressure, accuracy, and timing. Life, like war, demands precision. Just as a marksman gauges the wind before taking the shot, so too must we prepare for what’s to come. These mountains, these rituals, these acts of discipline—they are my training ground. Every swing of the axe, every climb through the unforgiving ice, every hunt in the blizzard sharpens the edge.

The West has lost its edge. Fat acceptance, soy virtue signaling, and emasculated ideologies flood the culture like a toxic tide. Weak men, indoctrinated by Marxist dogma, shrink from the very idea of discipline and strength. They call it toxic masculinity because they fear its power, but power is what separates the predator from the prey.

Out here, in the silence of the mountains, something primal stirs. It whispers of what men were born to be. The Marxist emasculated West fears this truth because it threatens control. This fight isn’t only against Marxist regimes who censor free speech and oppose masculinity; it’s against the softness, the apathy, the rot festering in men’s souls.

"A warrior’s strength is not in the weapon he wields but in the storm he becomes. When chaos descends, the coward clings to comfort, but the warfighter sharpens his edge, carves through fear, and commands the battlefield with a heart forged in fire and fists born of stone." – Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings, 1645

Strong men, forged in fire and tempered by the elements, don’t waste time in Marxist indoctrination camps disguised as universities and mainstream media. They endure the crucible of ice-capped mountains and bone-breaking cold, living on the edge of annihilation. These men—who hunt, fight, and thrive in extreme conditions—don’t just survive; they dominate. They read The Book of Five Rings, master The Art of War, and turn chessboards into battlegrounds. Dangerous doesn’t begin to describe them; they are the warhammer that shatters Marxist glasshouses.

Let the soy-swilling Marxist beta cucks stew in their slop. Don’t waste a second trying to awaken the mindfucked emasculated zombies who waddle under the banner of “fat acceptance” and “beauty in every size.” Their virtue-signaling chants about climate change and social impact are just shields for their fear—fear of men becoming strong again, of men remembering their place as masters of their own destiny.

"The battlefield does not favor the strongest or the swiftest, but the most prepared. Victory belongs to the man who turns discipline into instinct, fear into fuel, and chaos into his ally. While the weak debate morality, the warfighter molds the earth beneath his feet into a weapon and strikes before the enemy even dreams of war."– Sun Tzu, The Art of War, 5th century BC

But this isn’t about dragging the weak out of their self-made quicksand. No, this is about breaching the locked door that holds back the primal force within you. When a man pits himself against raw nature—hunting, ice climbing, surviving the unforgiving wilderness—something ancient stirs in his blood. His ancestors roar through his veins. He begins to remember what they wanted him to forget.

The world didn’t steal your strength—it buried it alive, hoping you’d never dig deep enough to find it. But you will.

Because war is coming. And when it does, the weak will drown in their soy stew while the strong rise like wolves and bears from the blizzard.

And when it does? Be ready to unleash hell.

Stay hard, motherfuckers.

"Sovereign Steeds of the Bear Mountain Badlands"

"A man’s worth isn’t measured by his words but by the blood he spills for what’s his. Out here, there’s no room for fear—only the gun, the grit, and the will to make your enemies remember your name in the dirt they fall in."
– Colton “Iron Jack” Granger, Last of the Hard Men, 1876

 

"We do not fear death; we greet it with fire in our hearts. The land does not belong to the strong—it belongs to those who have the courage to take it and the spirit to hold it." – Nantan “Red Wolf” Mangas, Apache War Chief, 1864

Here they are, the sovereign steeds of the Bear Mountain Badlands, wild and free across Japan’s last frontier. At the base of Japan's Great Northern Alps, where the rugged wilderness stands defiant against time, these majestic ponies thrive, embodying a raw, untamed spirit. They are more than creatures—they are echoes of an unbroken lineage, guardians of the last untamed frontier in a world that has forgotten what it means to be truly free.

"No reins, no fences, no master’s hand,
Just wild hooves pounding Badlands sand.

Bear Mountain’s breath, the alpine air,
Where noble steeds carve freedom’s lair.

From rancher’s rope to bronc’s sharp fight,
Through sweat and grit, they earn the night.
Beneath the dawn, through shadowed skies,
Their primal thunder splits the ties.

A cowboy’s love, raw, hard, and true,
For steeds unbridled, wild as dew.
Oh, Bear Mountain ponies, fierce and free,
In you, we find our legacy."

"Mercy is for the weak, and the weak are for the grave. A real warfighter doesn’t ask for permission or forgiveness—he takes what’s his, leaves blood in his wake, and carves his legend into the bones of his enemies." – Bear Mountain Rancher

 

 

Rolling Coal, $300 Oil, and the Collapse of the Modern World: A Whiskey-Fueled Dive into Energy Markets & Global Chaos

Rolling Coal, $300 Oil, and the Collapse of the Modern World: A Whiskey-Fueled Dive into Energy Markets & Global Chaos

"Oil Barrels, Ballistic Missiles, and the Golden Age of Madness: When $300 Oil Buys You Front-Row Seats to Armageddon"

As I fire up the V8 GMC Denali Diesel, rolling motherfucking coal up Bear Mountain, the engine roars like an oil-soaked war cry. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? History repeating itself in the same monotonous loop, but this time, we’re not talking a repeat of 2008’s fiscal crash. Nah, this time we’re riding shotgun straight into a real-life "Fight Club." Think about Tyler Durden’s words: “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.” That’s where we’re headed, folks—the collapse of Western civilization. But it ain’t going to be the kind where you “hit bottom” and build something new. This time, the world might not get a second chance.

We’re watching energy markets hit the point of no return. Right now, oil’s at $70.9 a barrel. Sounds like the good old days compared to what’s coming. The world’s geopolitical chessboard is shaking, with Netanyahu sitting there like he’s God’s bulldog, ready to unleash hell on Tehran. If the Strait of Hormuz gets shut down—and believe me, it’s not an if, it’s a when—we’re talking the kind of energy crunch that’ll make $300 oil seem like a Black Friday sale.

Here’s my deep dive: the Strait of Hormuz isn’t just a narrow shipping lane—it’s the aorta of the global oil supply. 21 million barrels of oil pass through that 21-mile wide chokepoint every day. That’s one-fifth of the world’s oil, and Iran’s got it in their crosshairs like a sniper waiting for the trigger word. Think back to the 1973 Oil Embargo. The West choked on that, and it was a blip compared to what’s about to go down.

Iran has the tactical leverage to close off that Strait faster than you can say “sanctioned.” And guess who benefits when that happens? BRICS. Russia, China, Brazil—they’re the shadow operators in this grand heist. BRICS has been building a financial bunker while the West plays Jenga with its debt ceiling. “We buy things we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like.” Fight Club said it best—except this time, that money we don’t have is the U.S. dollar, and the world is ready to walk away from it like a failed investment in a startup with no product. BRICS nations are buying oil in rubles and yuan, pushing the dollar closer to the cliff’s edge. Once it goes over, the crash will make 1929 look like a picnic.

Now, you want granular? Here’s a nugget: gold just hit $2,700 USD an ounce today, and in Japan, it’s flirting with 500,000 yen per ounce. What does that tell you? Gold doesn’t spike like this unless we’re heading into something biblical. Historically, parabolic gold rallies have always been the prelude to economic apocalypse. Gold doesn’t just hedge against inflation; it signals that the fiscal house of cards is about to come tumbling down. You think central banks are buying this stuff for kicks? They’re getting ready for the fallout.

Iran lights up the Strait, and Western economies seize up faster than a junkie in withdrawal. The Saudis and Russians will watch the carnage like spectators at a gladiator match. You think Putin’s sweating over these sanctions? Hell no. $300 oil turns him into a czar, while Biden trips over his own shadow trying to figure out how to keep gas under $10 a gallon.

Let’s talk strategy. Beach Energy’s sitting at AUD$1.24 right now, looking like a steal. Why? Because when that $300 barrel becomes a reality, they’ll be printing money. You don’t even need to know much about the market to figure this out. Beach Energy’s positioned like a wolf waiting to feast on the carcass of Western economic collapse. But here’s the forensic angle you didn’t think of—this isn’t just about oil production. These energy companies have been diversifying into natural gas and renewables, preparing for the chaos. They know the party’s over for cheap oil, and they’re pivoting to be the last ones standing when the dollar dies.

And they’ll profit from every last barrel as the West scrambles to keep the lights on. Meanwhile, the BRICS nations are hoarding gold like preppers hoarding canned goods. In 2023 alone, China added over 100 tons of gold to its reserves, outpacing every other nation. Why? Because when the dollar crashes, hard assets will be the only currency left standing. “On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.” We’re living in the last gasps of Western financial hegemony, and BRICS knows it. They’re not waiting for the collapse—they’re making it happen.

While the rest of the world repositions for the kill shot, the West is limping into the arena with its pants down. The U.S. debt is at $33 trillion, inflation’s rising, and Biden’s about as effective at foreign policy as a blindfolded man playing darts. This is all self-inflicted. Years of reckless spending, unchecked wars, and Keynesian economics have hollowed out the American economy. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is pivoting. Russia’s oil production has actually increased post-sanctions. And China? They’re buying oil in yuan, cutting the dollar out of the equation entirely. It’s economic warfare, and the West doesn’t even realize they’re losing.

“The things you own end up owning you.” The West owns this collapse because they built it. They outsourced their manufacturing to China, their energy to the Middle East, and their finances to a global debt bubble that’s about to pop. This is what happens when you let ideologues and bureaucrats steer the ship—eventually, you hit the iceberg.

The only move left? Go primal. Guns, gold, oil, whiskey—anything that can’t be digitized, devalued, or destroyed by inflation. The West’s paper currencies are circling the drain, and if you’re not in hard assets, you’re about to be left holding Monopoly money. This is the collapse: “It’s only after disaster that we can be resurrected.” But this isn’t about resurrection anymore—it’s about survival. The smart money is already moving. The question is, are you?

This isn’t just about $300 oil. This is about the collapse of the entire Western financial system. When oil hits $500, when the dollar is dead and long gone, when BRICS walks away with the prize, the West will finally realize they’ve been outplayed. They’ll scramble to patch things up, but by then, it’ll be too late. You want to be ahead of the curve? You stockpile real assets, you load up on Beach Energy, gold, bullets, burbon and tobacco and prepare for the chaos. Because when the weird turn pro, only the prepared survive.

Bear J. Sleeman, rolling motherfucking coal up Bear Mountain with a barrel of whiskey and a rifle, watching the West burn one oil barrel at a time.

 

Fiscal Faceplants & Firewood: Doom, Debt, My Whiskey Neat with a Side of Liver, Some Fava Beans in Truffle Bourdeaux Demiglace Sauce: Musings from the Alpine Outlaw, Bear Mountain’s Machetes, Markets, and Madness Pyromaniac

Fiscal Faceplants & Firewood: Doom, Debt, My Whiskey Neat with a Side of Liver, Some Fava Beans in Truffle Bourdeaux Demiglace Sauce: Musings from the Alpine Outlaw, Bear Mountain’s Machetes, Markets, and Madness Pyromaniac

Picture this: the world’s crumbling faster than a soufflé in a hailstorm, and here I am, high above the wreckage, perched on Bear Mountain like some deranged prophet with a penchant for fiscal sadism and a love of firepower that borders on sexual. I’m sipping Hibiki 18 neat—because anything less in these circumstances would be an insult to what remains of dignity—and I’m contemplating the apocalypse like a sociopathic dinner date with Hannibal Lecter. Yes, my friends, fiscal collapse is the main course, but we’re pairing it with liver, fava beans, and a truffle Bourdeaux demiglace sauce. If Rome is burning, I’ll be dining like Caligula, insane, amused, and armed to the teeth.

You see, the markets aren’t just crashing—they’re twitching, convulsing in their final throes like some poor bastard who just realized the steak knife wasn’t for cutting beef. No, no—this is the part where the suits on Wall Street realize they’re on the chopping block, squirming under the blade of a machete-wielding maniac disguised as Jerome Powell. They thought they could print their way out of this mess, flood the world with fiat like a frat house drowning in Everclear. But there’s no escape. The game is rigged, the house always wins, and the U.S. Treasury is playing Russian Roulette with six bullets.

I split firewood with the precision of a surgeon carving up a bloated cadaver of debt. Thwack. Another log splits. Thwack. Another dollar dies. It’s poetic, really. The financial world, cracking like the wood beneath my axe, while I stand here—stoic, cold as the snow-capped peaks of the Alps, watching it all burn with the detached amusement of a serial killer at a gallery of his finest work.

It’s not enough to understand the collapse—you have to savor it. Like a fine meal, you must appreciate the textures, the flavors of impending doom as it slides down your throat with that whiskey burn. This isn’t your average recession, folks; this is a feast of destruction, a banquet of madness.

When the going gets weird, as Hunter S. Thompson wisely noted, the weird turn pro. And brother, I’ve turned pro. You don’t watch a system devour itself unless you’ve got the stomach for it—and I’m here with an appetite fit for a goddamn warlord. So while the rest of the world stumbles through this financial hellscape, begging for mercy and bailout packages, I’m up here on Bear Mountain, stacking gold, loading mags, and sharpening my machete. A man has to be prepared—if not for the wolves, then for the bankers.

Speaking of preparation, I’ve recently added to my collection. There’s nothing quite like the feel of cold steel in your hand, a firearm that could blow a hole through a cow at 100 yards. My latest toy? The S&W 500 Magnum—a hand cannon that makes Dirty Harry’s .44 look like a cap gun. And when you’re dealing with a world as insane as this one, you need guns, guns, guns. This isn’t a world for the meek; it’s a world where the man with the biggest arsenal wins.

The thing is, it’s not just the economy that’s falling apart—it’s the whole damn system. Debt ceilings, fiat currencies, bureaucratic incompetence—it’s a three-ring circus of stupidity, and I’m the ringmaster watching the clowns crash into each other while I light a cigar with the last $100 bill worth anything. And just to prove a point to myself, to really drive home the absurdity, I’m heading outside now to shoot my S&W 500 Magnum into my wretched typewriter buried under two feet of snow. Why? Because even my tools of expression need to feel the wrath of fiscal ruin. Stay hard, stay armed, and remember: in the end, all that’s left is firewood, whiskey, and the cold comfort of your trigger finger. 

—Bear Mountain Rancher, signing off from the edge of the world —Bear J. Sleeman

 

Musings on Markets and Madness from the Last Frontier - Bear-Sighted Observations from the Edge of the Fiscal Abyss: Sharp Wit, Debt Spirals, and Fresh-Cut Timber - Bear J. Sleeman

Musings on Markets and Madness from the Last Frontier - Bear-Sighted Observations from the Edge of the Fiscal Abyss: Sharp Wit, Debt Spirals, and Fresh-Cut Timber —Bear J. Sleeman

As the World Burns, I Split Wood, Sip Hibiki 18, and Watch the Snow Creep Down the Alps

There’s something poetic about chopping wood while the world unravels. The rhythmic swing of the axe, the satisfying crack of the split, the smell of fresh pine mingling with the crisp mountain air—meanwhile, global markets are circling the drain like flushed refuse.

I pour myself three fingers of Hibiki 18, the kind of whiskey that makes you savor each sip, while down below, nations are gulping fiscal poison like it’s happy hour. The snowline on the Alp peaks creeps lower, like a slow-moving omen, while inflation and interest rates climb higher. The colder it gets up here, the hotter the dumpster fire down there.

And me? I’m here on Bear Mountain Ranch, watching it all with the detached amusement of a man who knows the difference between a real axe and the one the world’s governments are grinding.

Black holes are curious things—cosmic death traps lurking in the vastness of space. These massive gravitational pits pull everything toward the Singularity, distorting space and time. Beyond the Event Horizon, the point of no return, even light can’t escape. Cross that line, and you’re done for, stretched and torn apart in the cold void until you’re reduced to atoms. No one knows what’s beyond, but I can’t imagine it’s a place you’d want to explore.

Oddly enough, it’s a fitting metaphor for the fiscal disaster we’re witnessing on a global scale. Early October threw down the latest figures for U.S. debt—on one single day, it spiked by $204 billion. By the weekend, another $347 billion was piled on, and the total hit $35.7 trillion. That’s $105K for every American and a whopping $271K for every taxpayer. How’d we end up here? Simple—decades of reckless spending from both political parties, wars, and the recent COVID bailout frenzy.

The real explosion began after the 2008 financial collapse, and by 2020, the roof was blown off. For over a year, inflation was downplayed—remember that "transitory" nonsense? Then, Jerome Powell slammed the accelerator on rate hikes, aiming to do what Volcker did in the '80s—break inflation’s back. In a way, he succeeded, but at a cost we’ll be paying for generations. U.S. debt interest hit $1 trillion annually for the first time in history.

When you raise rates 500 basis points on a $33 trillion debt, problems follow—massive problems. With trillions of debt rolling over, it’s all getting refinanced at much higher rates. Picture rolling over credit card debt on a national scale—it’s like swapping out an old pair of shoes for spikes and wondering why you’re suddenly bleeding. And nobody’s buying long-term U.S. debt anymore. America’s debt market is morphing into a game of hot potato, and the only ones holding it are hedge funds and tax haven gamblers. Central banks aren’t interested in this bad bet anymore.

That, my friends, is the financial Event Horizon. We’ve crossed the line where the gravitational pull of debt becomes inescapable. It’s the moment where America goes from superpower to something much more fragile. Like Argentina or Turkey, the world’s largest economy is hurtling toward a brick wall, and no amount of wishful thinking is going to save it.

As I sat down to pen these thoughts today, the rhythmic sound of my axe splitting wood echoed across the crisp autumn air here on Bear Mountain Ranch. The mist drifted down from the Northern Alps, settling over Bear Ravine, and the scent of fresh-cut timber lingered around me. It’s the kind of day that makes you pause and reflect on the larger world—how serene it is up here, yet how chaotic things have become down below.

Just like the sniper’s triad—pressure, accuracy, and timing—everything in life requires a keen sense of when to act. But right now, the global debt market seems oblivious to timing, barreling toward a cliff with reckless abandon. If U.S. debt goes “no bid,” what makes anyone think EU or Japanese bonds will be spared? We’re on the cusp of a monumental shift—a financial reset—and it won’t be pretty.

When that reset hits and U.S. debt officially goes “no bid,” brace for impact. Interest rates will spike into double digits, triggering an economic collapse that will shake markets around the world. And as history has shown us, when the collapse comes, gold becomes king. It doesn’t matter how high the bids get—gold will go “no offer.” No one will be selling, and those left holding fiat currencies will be left with nothing but dust.

Gold’s history speaks for itself. Whether in the 1929 stock market crash, the inflation spirals of the '70s, or the 2008 financial meltdown, gold always soared. After Nixon took us off the gold standard in 1971, it shot up over 400%, from $35 to $180. By 1980 and again in 2001, it was the darling of investors as the world grappled with inflation and geopolitical chaos.

We’re staring down the barrel of history once again. Correlations between Western debt, inflation, and sky-high P/E ratios are reaching critical mass, just like they did in 1977, 2000, and 2008. Gold rocketed up 700% in those times, and it’s poised to do it again. This time, though, we’ve passed the point of no return. As currencies crumble under the weight of endless debt, the only solid ground left is in gold.

So here I sit, on Bear Mountain Ranch, as the world inches closer to the brink. The lesson is simple—precision matters. Whether you’re chopping wood or navigating a collapsing economy, timing is everything. When the moment is right, you take the shot.

Now, it’s time to pour myself another stiff glass of Hibiki 18-year whiskey, kick back by the fire, and crank The Jompson Brothers up to 11...

Stay hard.

—Bear Mountain Rancher, signing off from the edge of the world —Bear J. Sleeman

Musings from My Den on Bear Mountain Ranch

Musings from My Den on Bear Mountain Ranch

As I sat down to write this earlier this afternoon, the rhythmic sound of my axe splitting cords of wood echoed through the crisp mountain air. The mist and fog, like wandering spirits, made their way off the Great Northern Alps, cascading down into Bear Ravine and enveloping Bear Mountain Ranch. It’s a scene that always sparks a fire in my thoughts, igniting musings that range from the mundane to the profound.

In this tranquil moment, with the scent of fresh-cut timber lingering in the air, I couldn’t help but reflect on the world beyond these mountains. It’s a curious juxtaposition—this serene sanctuary contrasted against the chaotic financial landscape. The world’s markets seem to be on a collision course with reality, and the echoes of history whisper warnings that resonate like the thud of my axe striking wood.

It’s fascinating how life mirrors the precision of the sniper’s triad—pressure, accuracy, and timing. Just as a marksman takes his time to gauge the wind and line up the perfect shot, we find ourselves standing on the precipice of a global debt crisis, ready to take aim at the unseen targets ahead. The synchronized markets and central banks are about to witness a wave of “no bid” that could send shockwaves through every corner of the economy.

The synchronized markets and central banks are heading toward a point where debt will be going “No Bid” worldwide. If we're already teetering on the edge of “no bid” for U.S. debt, do you really think anyone’s going to rush in to snatch up EU or Japanese bonds? If the end is nigh for U.S. debt—and let's be honest, we're way past the tipping point of no return—the fate of all Western debt is sealed as well. We're in the midst of a monetary reset, and it’s as clear as a blue sky that this reset is not going to be pretty.

When the shit hits the fan and U.S. debt goes "NO BID", brace yourselves for interest rates to surge into high double-digit territory, causing a catastrophic collapse across global markets.  when that moment arrives, gold will be “No Offer,” no matter how high the bids are.

Why would anyone bother with the relative valuations of crumbling fiat currencies when it's evident that inflation is skyrocketing globally, and the specter of World War III looms ever closer? War is the leading catalyst for inflation, coupled with the reckless abandon of Modern Monetary Theory. Now's the time to go balls deep heavy on gold—better to be a gold bug than a currency fool in these end of days times.

When this plays out, Gold is going to go “no offer,” regardless of bids.

Consider the current correlation between EU, Hong Kong, and U.S. debt, paired with the soaring P/E ratios of blue-chip stocks. We’re hitting levels not seen since 1977, 2000 and 2008, periods that serve as cautionary tales. Back then, those correlations lined up like a well-tuned orchestra, and gold didn’t just rise; it rocketed up 700% like it was shot out of a cannon on Australia Day celebrations. Remember 1980 and 2001? Gold was the darling of the investment world, skyrocketing as inflation and geopolitical tensions ratcheted up. Fast forward to 2008, and we witnessed a similar correlation playing out as markets crumbled, with gold shining brighter than a lighthouse in a storm.

Looking further back, consider the early 1970s, a time when gold was finally liberated from the shackles of the Bretton Woods system. As Nixon took the U.S. off the gold standard in 1971, inflation began to spiral, and gold responded with a ferocity that would make a bull in a china shop look tame. By 1974, it had jumped from $35 an ounce to over $180—an increase of over 400%—as the nation’s economy grappled with stagflation and rising oil prices. Or the 1929 stock market crash, where the P/E ratios reached dizzying heights, leading to a cataclysm of The Great Depression of 1929—when the stock market crashed, sending the world into a tailspin and gold was the safe haven of choice. It took off like a rocket as investors fled the failing fiat currencies, before Governments banned the ownership of Gold, illustrating that history has a way of repeating itself, especially when you’re talking about precious metals and monetary mismanagement.

These historical parallels are not mere coincidences; they serve as a reminder of the cyclical nature of markets and human behavior.

Now, with inflation soaring and monumental debt levels that can never be paid back and most likely we will see Governments around the world default on all of their debt, and geopolitical tensions rising, we’re on the brink of another monumental shift. As currencies crumble under the weight of excessive debt and reckless monetary policy, it’s time to recognize that the only solid ground we have left is in gold. The days of depending on fiat currencies are numbered. Inflation is not just looming; it’s already here, poised to explode as the specter of global conflict becomes an undeniable reality. Modern Monetary Theory has unleashed a deluge of dollars, yet the world is about to discover that printing money doesn’t equate to prosperity.

We’re right back at that correlation point again. It’s as if history is hitting repeat, and if you don’t have your hands on some gold, you might just be left holding the bag—along with a hefty dose of regret.

As I wrap up these thoughts, I can't help but reflect on the importance of precision in every action, whether in the markets or life. In the face of impending chaos, we must hold steady, choose our targets carefully, and strike when the moment is right.

Now, I’m going to pour myself a stiff three-finger glass of Hibiki 18-year whiskey, put my feet up next to the log fire, and listen to a live recording of The Jompson Brothers at The Bear Mountain Loggers, playing "Motor Running."

Stay Hard!

Bear Mountain Rancher, Going Dark...

The Jompson Brothers LIVE at The Bear Mountain Loggers

 

 

Whitey Morgan and the 78s "Bad News" Live at The Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop - Hell I'm Bad News!

 

As Bear Mountain Ages, BullDozer Turns Eight Today as he Buries his Horns, & Raises a Hell Storm

 

 

This is BullDozer, he's 800 kilos of of pure unadulterated Wagyu X Angus magnificence. Today Bulldozer turned 8 years old, and to celebrate his birthday, he tore into the Bear mountain mist like the spirit of the earth itself. Buried deep underneath the pines behind our homestead, wet soil flying as his horns churn the mud, the light rain falling. He kicked up the ground like a storm, his voice echoing through the backwoods, expressing his joy and happiness—a sound like ancient thunder, rough and proud. BullDozer didn't just stand in the rain; he became part of it, baptizing himself in that primal way only a creature of the wild can.

Bulldozer is the embodiment of Bear Mountain: unashamed, powerful, and free. He dug into the muck and the wet bark of the pine tree, claiming his place like a boss—through force and presence. And in that moment, with his coat slicked and streaked with rain and mud, BullDozer isn’t just a bull; he’s a badass, a living testament to the beauty of untamed strength. Here, on Bear Mountain, that’s how life is: raw, loud, and unapologetically toxic masculine. 

STAY HARD!

GRINDHOUSE PRESENTS: "VIRGINS NIGHTMARE HELL ON WHEELS"- OPENING SCENE - A SLEEMAN BROTHERS FILM

 

Dark humor is like Keynesian economics—no one can explain how it works, but it’s guaranteed to leave everyone broke except the one guy in charge of the punchline.