wolves of vinland

2017-05-27 11.50.56

Waldgang Journal

It’s been a little over two months since I took ownership of Waldgang. I’d like to thank the guys who keep buying books and merchandise from Brutal Company, because I sure haven’t done much in the way of writing or promotion since May 12. If you follow my Instagram, you’ve seen what we’ve been up to, but I sometimes forget that I have many readers who don’t use Instagram. I see what I am doing there as the ongoing fulfillment of everything I have written about in the past, so what I am doing and learning by doing is more important than anything I could write or say. Also, every time I sit down to write, I end up like I did today…sourcing joist hangers for a yurt and seats for composting toilets and then I’m sketching roof plans for my cabin and then it’s time to go to the gym and my “in-town” workday is over.

My brother Afi and I have been out at Waldgang for at least two days out of every week since I bought the land, with frequent help from our other local brothers.

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The Wolfhaus at Waldgang

The first structure we built was the Wolfhaus, a place for my local and traveling Wolves of Vinland brothers to crash when they are out at the land. It’s a simple building that houses two bunk beds.

After a few weeks of work, Mike Lummio from Bushcraft Northwest happened to be in the area, and I asked him to stop by and give us some tips on managing the land responsibly and effectively. He told us what trees to cut down and when, when to burn, how to attract beneficial bats and birds, and checked the place for invasive species. I did a podcast with Mike awhile back.

Listen to my podcast with Mike Lummio on Bushcraft here

Spending so much time at the land has really cut into our gym week, so we decided to build an outside dip station and squat rack with a much needed storage building. It occurred to us that we should erect a temple to Thor/Donar in this place of strength, so we came up with a design that we plan to replicate with appropriate adaptations for other gods as the land is developed, culminating in a substantially larger building dedicated to Odin that we won’t get to until next summer.

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My brothers Paul and Matthias have been making an epic transcontinental motorcycle journey this summer with a Wolves Prospect and a rotating cast of characters, so they stopped at Waldgang for a weekend to check it out.  Waldgang really came alive for me the morning we all worked out together in front of Thor’s shrine. You can build things, and imagine how they will be used, but there is something deeply satisfying about seeing your friends enjoy structures that you just sketched out on paper a couple of weeks prior.

The outdoor gym at Waldgang

The outdoor gym at Waldgang


The trees on the land are all scrub oak and ponderosa pines. Oak is sacred to Thor, so we cut down a dead oak — I’d never lay a blade on the handful of grand, twisted oaks out there that are old enough to have character — and dubbed it Donar’s Oak. In the spirit of creating sacred spaces and new traditions, we have asked heathens to send us Mjolnirs (Thor’s hammers) as offerings. We’ve received several already, and hope to in a few years have a tree covered in hundreds of Mjolnir necklaces. Things have meaning because we give them meaning, and so many people sending something that symbolizes something important to them is a way to create something truly profound. I imagine visitors years from now traveling to Waldgang and looking forward to placing a Mjolnir on Donar’s sacred oak. If you’d like to make an offering, send a Mjolnir to my post office box at 4230 SE King Road #185
Milwaukie, OR 97222.

2017-07-23 11.02.11-5

Placing Mjolnir offerings on Donar’s Oak at the Wigiþonar Harugaz

Wildfires are common near Waldgang, so summer fires are a bad and irresponsible idea. I finally caved and purchased a propane grill so that we could start cooking steaks instead of living on a questionable amount of protein bars. To house the grill and coolers, Afi and I built a bar area, which with the addition of picnic tables, became a “Biergarten.” Again, something that we didn’t plan initially…we just realized it was something we needed to facilitate hanging out with a bunch of guys…like the composting toilet outhouse we’re going to have to build in the next month or so.

Biergarten at Waldgang

Biergarten at Waldgang

Despite what some petulant critics have written, the Waldgang project is actually about a lot more than hiding in the woods and “cracking one open with the boys.” It’s an acknowledgement that the West has been  culturally dead for decades if not the better part of a century. It’s an acknowledgement that politics in America is a bad joke. Anyone who invests in the American political system is wasting time, energy and money making strangers who don’t care about them wealthy and powerful. It’s about unplugging from the curated narrative of distorted “news” that defines “reality” for almost everyone.

Where the automatism increases to the point of approaching perfection—such as in America—the panic is even further intensified. There it finds its best feeding grounds; and it is propagated through networks that operate at the speed of light.2 The need to hear the news several times a day is already a sign of fear; the imagination grows and paralyzes itself in a rising vortex. The myriad antennae rising above our megacities resemble hairs standing on end—they provoke demonic contacts.

Jünger, Ernst. The Forest Passage (Kindle Locations 615-619). Telos Press Publishing. Kindle Edition.

These strangers on the covers of magazines, these people who lazily “report” by copying and pasting the last “reporter’s” lies, these theatrical battles between powerless people in goofy costumes acting out meme wars…they’re not my people, and they’re not my problem. I’ve read along as others have identified problems with the world, their world, but all they want to do is protest. They create nothing. They can say that what we are doing doesn’t change anything, but does hand-wringing about the fake news — ALL news is fake news now, everything is just clickbait — ever change anymore? Registering an opinion on something doesn’t change it. It just provides a comforting illusion of control.

We have a rule at Waldgang. Anyone who mentions the name of a politician who doesn’t return their phone calls has to go pick up a rock over fifty pounds and move it to wherever we need one. We have a lot of rocks.

The locus of freedom is to be found elsewhere than in mere opposition, also nowhere that any flight can lead to. We have called it the forest.

Jünger, Ernst. The Forest Passage (Kindle Location 648). Telos Press Publishing. Kindle Edition.


sacred-and-the-profaneWaldgang is about creating a different reality. At the very least, some kind of “temporary autonomous zone.” It’s about demonstrating “a diversity of possibilities,” and reordering the world — my world, our world, but not necessarily yours. I was inspired by Mircea Eliade’s book The Sacred and the Profane. In Becoming a BarbarianI wrote about the nervousness and desperation created by The Empire of Nothing. “Citizens of the World” lack meaningful social identity. They become rootless. To these Citizens of the World — of the Empire — everyone is essentially the same and everyone is adrift, purchasing objects and disposable consumer identities to make themselves feel connected to something…anything. In The Sacred and the ProfaneEliade makes a similar point about the modern, desacralized world. In Traditional societies, people make sense of the world by differentiating between sacred spaces, objects, and ideas — and everything else, which is common, everyday, profane. An object or space becomes sacred because it means something important to “us,” to our people, who share a particular culture and set of beliefs. He studied and wrote about Shamanistic societies, and the cross-cultural idea of creating some kind of axis mundi that connects heaven and earth and links man to the divine and eternal. He explored the concept of what he called “founding the world” — one might even say “starting the world” — through the creation of these axes and sacred, set apart spaces. I’ll be developing some of these ideas for an essay I’m working on for the upcoming edition of the spearheading TYR Journal, to be published later this year.

Building on this ancient framework as conceptualized by Eliade, we founded the axis of our world at Waldgang. In heathen and Asatru circles, an altar is sometimes referred to as a hǫrgr, from the Old Norse, but at Waldgang we are descended from Germans and Britons, and we wanted to reach back deeper into a more ancient, primal past, so we have been incorporating words from the theoretical, unattested proto-Germanic language. Hǫrgr comes from an older form, Harugaz, which means  sanctuary, haildom, grove, altar, pile of stones.

2017-05-27 11.50.56

The first cleansing fires at the Harugaz.

Together, my brothers and I made fires to set and sanctify the circle where the Harugaz would stand while it was still safe to burn on the land. Over several weeks, we added rocks to the Harugaz, built around a wooden pillar buried at the center. We brought the pillar from our former ritual space, where it had been blooded and covered with protective bindrunes by Paul Waggener. The pillar, inspired by some of the traditional Germanic beliefs, symbolizes Yggdrasil, which connects all worlds. Sacred objects and stones from other altars and sacred places, including some soil I collected from the 7,000 year old Sonnenobservatorium Goseck in Germany earlier this year, were incorporated into the Harugaz. 

Placing the 650 pound table stone on the Harugaz at Waldgang.

Placing the 650 pound table stone on the Harugaz at Waldgang.

Finally, while Paul and Matthias were visiting, we placed a 650 pound table stone on the pillar, and inaugurated the Harugaz with a late night ritual that, after Eliade, reenacted the Germanic cosmology, uniting fire and ice from nothingness to create chaotic life — the primal scream — and blooding the skull of a pig that had been sacrificed in the name of Ymir, from whose corpse Odin and his brothers created the world.

2017-07-15 19.53.24-2

The Harugaz at Waldgang

After the Waggener brothers left, I returned to the land to started framing up my own small cabin at the Waldgang. In the coming years I’ll be spending a lot of time there, and hope to be doing the majority of my writing and creative work there by next spring. There are many more projects to finish before winter, when I’ll focus more on creating sacred objects and artwork. Also looking forward to big fires in the snow.





White Trash

Why I Am Not A White Nationalist

I am not a White Nationalist.

I’m just not a spineless cuck who pisses his pants every time someone calls him a racist on Facebook. And I don’t let people who I have no respect for tell me who I’m allowed to support or call a friend. 

Six years ago, before I ever spoke at an “Alt-Right” event or submitted an article to Alternative Right or Radix or Counter Currents, I wrote an essay titled, “Mighty White.” I stand by it to this day, and my views have changed very little over the years.

In fact, there’s very little new to say, except that, if anything, I’ve learned to hate white people and White Nationalists more than any of their opponents. Not because they are evil monsters, but because they generally suck. I hate white people and White Nationalists because they are weak, broken, phenomenally autistic, or all three. I am now, more than ever, clearly still not a White Supremacist.

(Actually, almost no one is. “White Supremacist” is a political slur. Ironically, only inbred rednecks identify as “White Supremacists” and the KKK hasn’t been a politically powerful organization, even among avowed racists, for decades. Anyone who talks about “white supremacists” is either clueless or a liar. Or the media. So, a clueless liar.)

As anyone familiar with my work knows, I support tribalism always and everywhere. As the 1970’s motto goes, I believe that “small is beautiful” when it comes to human communities. However, a tribal community has to have a lot more going for it than race. And this is where the idea of White Nationalism falls apart for me. Race alone isn’t enough to unite a people.

I flew to Germany to speak to German Identitarians recently, and I totally support their efforts to preserve their culture, because they have a culture — the culture of the majority of my own ancestors. The Germans aren’t just “white.” They’re German. They have a distinct language and a history as a people.  

Most Americans are pan-European mutts. America, by omission if not by design, has no people. It has no religion, and its only culture has been a culture of inclusion and expansion. Adventurous settlers paved the way for generations of enterprising businessmen — not unlike Donald Trump. They have been its conquerors and kings and popes — and the culture they’ve produced has been entirely market-driven.

White Nationalists in America see the legacy of their ancestors — white European settlers — being destroyed, and because they are too realistic at this point to imagine the expulsion of non-whites (as progressive heroes like Lincoln did), they want a homeland for whites somewhere in America like the Jews have in Israel. It’s not a terrible idea, and no more unfair than creating a state for any other ethnic group.

But within the group of White Nationalists, you have pagans and atheists and Orthodox Christians and Catholics and Nietzscheans and Evangelicals and Baptists and a whole mess of other sub-groups who have nothing in common but a shared white European heritage and who in fact have a long history of fighting with each other. If a whites-only ethnostate materialized tomorrow, the sub-groups would start genociding each other almost immediately, because although they may be able to come to an agreement on some basic HOA rules about lawn care, their philosophical worldviews are mutually exclusive and ultimately incompatible.

America is pluralistic by design not because the Founding Fathers wanted to protect the rights of women or racial or sexual minorities — but because white European Christian men have spent centuries murdering and imprisoning each other over religious differences. I see no reason why this phenomenon would not immediately become a problem within a “diverse” population of whites. In fact, if you want to get rid of all of the White Nationalists in America, my advice is to give them exactly what they want. As soon as you give them their own land and eliminate all of their common enemies, the sky will turn black as they scramble to give each other “free helicopter rides.”

The various factions of White Nationalists already spend more time gossiping about each other (usually anonymously), stabbing each other in the back and jockeying for power and influence than any group I have ever seen — except maybe Social Justice Warriors, who are also predominantly white. I’m not sure which group is the Jungian shadow of the other, but the majority of people in both groups are some of the most broken, shittiest white people on the planet.

The New Church LadiesSocial Justice Warriors think they are better than everyone because they apologize theatrically for being white and spend their time trying to destroy the lives of other white people. They are intellectual cowards who forgive every black athlete or rapper who shoots someone or beats his wife and they would never question a Muslim’s Allah-given right to throw a homosexual off a building or stone a woman to death. They only care about racism, homophobia or misogyny if white men are the offenders.

White Nationalists theatrically claim to be proud of being white because it is usually the only thing they have going for them, and then they spend countless hours obsessing over who is to blame (aside from their white parents) for the fact that they have nothing else going for them. If you’re an elite athlete or a brilliant inventor, you don’t need to get “white pride” tattooed on your chest.

And yes, “brown pride” is equally lame.

I recognize the argument that “pride” is a corrective to “anti” messaging, but if there’s anything truly and cussedly American in my nature, it’s that I am instinctively meritocratic. (That, and I’d like the government to stay off my goddamned lawn and out of my fucking business.) I wrote Androphilia in 2007 because I’ve never believed that homosexuality was something to be proud of, and that men should be characterized by, “what they do, not who they screw.” Paper-thin identities that require snowflake affirmation parades have been triggering me for a long time. Instead of being proud of something relatively superficial, you could always, you know, do something interesting with your life and give yourself something worthwhile to be proud of.

The “white pride” crowd is generally desperate and sad. Some of them are so stupid and conspiracy-oriented that they have convinced themselves I served in the Israeli military and/or am working as a planted agent provocateur for the CIA (seriously, that’s a thing). But there are exceptions. As far as White Nationalists go, I’ve met some guys I really respect. 

It’s cool, almost hipsterish, to hate Richard Spencer these days — even in WN circles. But I like Richard. He’s witty and stylish and above all committed to a cause that — even if I don’t exactly agree with it — is not only socially but physically dangerous to support.

A man of Spencer’s provenance could be spending his days making personal calls from his office at some high-status, low responsibility job, and his evenings doing coke in the bathroom as he parties with models at museum fundraisers. He doesn’t have to do anything. He’s basically Bruce Wayne.

Instead, he has a vision and stands up for it in public. It makes him no money and lowers his social status. He gets run out of gym after gym by notoriety-seeking professional virtue signalers. He’s been publicly denounced by almost everyone who ever supported him outside of his community of Alt-Right intellectuals. He is routinely attacked in public, and major celebrities and newspapers have hypocritically agreed that while violence is theoretically always wrong, it is totally OK to punch Dick Spencer. Meanwhile, Spencer has never attacked anyone or committed a “hate crime” and having met him on several occasions I am certain that he thinks “hate crimes” are the pointless, counterproductive and insufferably plebeian efforts of infantile crackpots. (On this, we absolutely agree.)

Whether you want what Spencer wants for the West or not, you have to agree that what he is doing takes balls.

The same could be said of a variety of other right-wing intellectuals who fearlessly speak out under their own names — instead of hiding behind anonymous handles as the majority of them do. The extremely decent and reasonable Jared Taylor comes to mind. He invited me to speak at one of his American Renaissance conferences years ago even though I am sure he was harassed incessantly for scheduling a “known degenerate” to speak at a conference held deep in Tennessee. Taylor has also been physically attacked for speaking in public about ideas with words.

I’ve also written for Counter-Currents and spoken at a few private Counter-Currents gatherings. Greg Johnson is less of a public figure, but he produces a lot of top-tier intellectual material on philosophy. He’s never been able to bring me the whole way ‘round on White Nationalism, but I’m happy to talk about ideas over dinner with him — you know, like “free thinkers” did before they lived in constant and paralyzing fear of the game of “Alinsky Ad Libs” now casually referred to as “journalism.”

I’ve met a fair number of White Nationalists at conferences and events over the years. Many of the attendees are exactly what you’d expect them to be — pasty losers and basement nerds obsessed with blacks and Jews, who fetishize whiteness because they want to feel better than someone else. Their culture is a culture of jealousy and ressentiment and entitlement.

But I have also met hundreds of bright, courageous young men who have legitimate concerns about their own futures and the futures of the children they hope to have. Most of them are attending or fresh out of college, and they’ve gone through decades of anti-white “diversity” programming and listened to lie after lie taught as fact. I have a friend who is going to Portland State University right now, and he sends me photos and screenshots of teachers presenting anti-white, feminist and “gender-fluid” material in science classes. He’s not a White Nationalist, but he would certainly agree with many of their criticisms of American society, and so do I. We’re just not race fetishists, and we just don’t agree that White Nationalism is a viable solution to those problems.

I have spoken at AmRen and NPI because my criticisms of American society and the direction of Western culture generally have overlapped, and continue to overlap, with criticisms made by writers in the Alternative Right and White Nationalist communities (to the extent that such communities even exist in any monolithic way). My criticisms of modernity also overlap with similar criticisms made by various men’s advocates, anti-feminists, Radical Traditionalists, anarchists, students of the occult, Orthodox Christians, pagans, folkish heathens, gun advocates, self-defense advocates, martial arts instructors, and physical fitness experts. I don’t agree with everything that any of them say, but I refuse to live in fear of associating with whomever people who follow the ladies gossip magazines have decided “the bad people” are this month.

That brings me to my disappointment with white men, generally.

The majority of the best American white men are complete cowards.

They’re not afraid of a fight necessarily — they don’t lack physical courage — but they are terrified of any social ridicule that could result in a loss of money or status.

I’ve seen the strongest men I know, some of the strongest men in the world, reduced to cowering, pleading, desperate babies because someone — anyone, no matter how credible — threatens to expose them as a “racist” or “sexist” or some kind of “phobe.”

They’ll do anything and debase themselves in any conceivable way to make the accusations go away. Whiny apologies, carefully crafted public statements condemning whatever they think people want them to condemn, awkwardly staged photos with token friends and business associates and employees. They’ll tell sloppy lies and throw close friends under the bus to try to save themselves and their “personal mission,” which is always some fluffed-up, messianic, Stephen Covey version of Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time.”

Most of these men aren’t White Nationalists or White Supremacists. They’re far too self-centered to support any cause that doesn’t offer a tax-write off and immediate public relations benefit. They’re too ambitious to support anything that might limit their market or reach or cause them to lose Instagram followers. America’s market-driven culture has transformed Western individualism into pure narcissistic nihilism. The white men who are actually successful in America are more like Patrick Bateman than Tyler Durden. They’ll pretend to care about whatever they are supposed to care about and say all the right words — but it’s all bullshit.

I’m writing this on Memorial Day, and most of these guys are probably holding Memorial Day sales and posting about how much they appreciate those who served, even though — with the exception of those who have actually served — they really give zero fucks about Memorial Day. It’s just a “marketing opportunity,” like every other holiday, season and major public tragedy. They don’t care about the charities they give money to or the people they say they are trying to help, or whoever they say they want to “feel included.” They care about getting their dicks sucked, literally and metaphorically.

Most of these strong, successful white men would probably agree with White Nationalists on a variety of issues, as they’ve had to sit through the same feminist/diversity indoctrination sessions as everyone else. They’re smart enough to know that they are being lied to by people with an agenda. And they love themselves, so they certainly don’t hate being white.

But ultimately, they worship success, not race or culture or even manliness. They don’t care about honor or integrity. They’ll say and do and even convince themselves that they believe anything that will make them more successful. Success is not a terrible god, as gods go. Winners care about winning, right?

Because I pride myself on being one of the most honest and self-aware thinkers I know, I’ll make an introspective aside here. We become angry and disappointed with people largely because they fail to live up to some ideal that we’ve constructed for them. This is my problem with people who pretentiously refer to themselves as “misanthropes” and profess a hatred for all humanity. They hate people for not being who they want them to be, for not conforming to some idiosyncratic personal fantasy about how people should behave. Wiser men observe how people actually behave, recognize who people actually are, and adjust their expectations accordingly. Better to be realistic and find yourself pleasantly surprised than to be eternally sullen and disappointed.

Maybe I want the best white men to be better than they are or have ever been.

I wish they conducted themselves with more integrity, but maybe they never did.

Maybe no one ever did.

Maybe I’m the sucker here.

That might be true to some extent.

But the fact remains that the best white men, the most successful white men, are actually quite fragile and easy to manipulate and pressure. They’re weak because they exist in constant fear of being exposed as racists and sexists — even if they aren’t any more racist or sexist than anyone else. Even if they really have little or nothing to hide.

The best and most successful white men are weak because they let the most pathetic white people imaginable run them, blackmail them and extort them. They cave over and over and they never speak their mind because they live in constant fear of backlash from people who they have — and should have — nothing but contempt and disgust for. I’m not talking about other races or people of other religions or women, generally speaking. I’m talking about virtue-signalling people — mostly other white people — who threaten charges of racism and sexism for their own personal gain.

We live in an age where the strongest white men in the world allow themselves to be pushed around by gossipy bloggers, church ladies, sleazy reporters, rent-seeking academic activists, little fat screaming lesbians and weak autistic hipsters.

The best and most successful white men in the world are infected with parasites and if they refuse to stand up and tell these garbage people to fuck off, they deserve to fail. They deserve to be enslaved by their lessers. Their race deserves to perish.

I’m not a White Nationalist because I don’t think people are worth saving just because they’re white.

Okay, you’re white. Great. Most white people suck. What else have you got?

I share a genetic and cultural heritage with white people. Race is more than “skin color.” But all white people are not my people. I don’t particularly care about the fate of any racial group. What happens to “white people” is not my problem or my responsibility. I want to be surrounded with people who share not only my vague common ancestry, but my values and beliefs. Anyone who read Becoming a Barbarian knows I don’t care about “the politics of the Empire.” I want to leave it all behind. I just want to hang out in the woods with my friends and build something beautiful — I want to build a new culture. I want to invest in the people I know personally and my family and the people I am oathed to — my tribe, The Wolves of Vinland.

I’m not a White Nationalist, I’m a Wolves Nationalist.

My aim as a writer isn’t to get you to support some major political movement or to join mine.

It’s to inspire you to find a group of people you’d be willing to say the same thing about.


Related Essays:

“Mighty White”http://www.jack-donovan.com/axis/2011/12/mighty-white/

“All They Have is Fear”http://www.jack-donovan.com/axis/2015/11/all-they-have-is-fear/

“I’m Sorry, I Just Don’t Keep Up With The Ladies’ Gossip Magazines.” https://www.counter-currents.com/2012/11/im-sorry-i-just-dont-keep-up-with-the-ladies-gossip-magazines/

Cohesive Societies Check State Power:

On Francis Fukuyama’s The Origins of Political Order







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Wolves of Vinland Photo Project by Peter Beste

Wolves of Vinland Photo Project by Peter Beste

Photographer Peter Beste, best known for his documentation of the Norwegian black metal scene, has started working on a project with the Wolves of Vinland. He joined me and some other Wolves for our Cascadian chapter’s first “open” moot. Wolves flew out from Virginia and Wyoming to participate, and other guests drove in from Washington, Oregon and California. Peter managed to capture a bit of the magic and camaraderie of this growing and dynamic tribe that I oathed into this past June. He’ll be attending other gatherings nationwide, and plans to assemble a unique and powerful book about the Wolves.

Check out the whole collection of his best photos from this weekend here.
For more about the Wolves of Vinland, read this and listen to this.
Peter Beste’s book on True Norwegian Black Metal is available through his store. 


STW Podcasts

Start The World Podcast – Episode#7 – The Wolves of Vinland

Paul WaggenerAfter I published my recent article about The Wolves of Vinland, a bunch of guys sent me questions.

Most of them were along the lines of “how do I start a tribe like that?” or “where do I sign up?”

So I invited Paul Waggener — Grimnir from the article — to come on Start The World and answer some of your questions.


Subscribe to START THE WORLD on iTunes here:


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Blog, Feature

A Time for Wolves

The Wolves of Vinland are Building a Tribe Outside the System

Wolves of Vinland - Grimnir

Grimnir oversees a fight at Ulfheim.

Brothers will battle to bloody end, and sisters’ sons their sib betray; 
woe’s in the world, much wantonness; 
axe-age, sword-age — sundered are shields — wind-age, wolf-age, ere the world crumbled;
will the spear of no man spare the other.
— “Völuspá”

Grimnir moved barefoot through the dirt at Ulfheim like he didn’t know he wasn’t wearing cowboy boots.

He rolled his shoulders, shook out his neck, and called out to Frejulf. This would be Grimnir’s third match of the day, and it wouldn’t be his last.

Frejulf seemed chipper for a kid who knew was about to get his face fucked up. He was a junior patch member of the Wolves, and this was going to be a disciplinary beatdown. Grimnir, leader of the Lynchburg chapter, had promised that if Frejulf didn’t get some extracurricular mixed martial arts training within a few months, he would show him why he needed it. Frejulf knew his time was up.

A red bearded patch with an algiz ᛉ rune tattoo on his freckled shoulder started picking out a tune on the banjo.

Grimnir and Frejulf touched their MMA gloves. Then hoots, hollers and brawling.

The fight was over in less than a minute.

Frejulf had blood on his face when he got up. He looked a little dazed, but he was smiling. He’d taken his medicine like a man, and hadn’t made too bad of showing — all things considered.

Paul Waggener, who you know as Grimnir, gave him a quick hug and a pat on the back.



There’s this video making the rounds designed to convince people that the worst thing you can tell a young male to do is “man up.”

It’s far worse to let a young men luxuriate in his own tears and fears and fantasize that he’s something special for doing nothing special. That’s a degradation of his spirit and a waste of a perfectly good Y chromosome.

A fat lip is just a fat lip.

Grimnir grabbed a wifebeater, cleaned the mud off his face and called out for a prospect to bring him a beer. He looked on as the fights continued. A few more serious matches, and a lot of light sparring. Another bloodied smile, a mild concussion and some vomiting. All in good fun.

Grimnir told me that the fighting was just a warmup for the main event at dusk. His brother, Jarn-nefr, who runs the Wyoming chapter, added later that the greatest achievement of the Wolves has been their ritual practice.

The Wolves of Vinland officially identify themselves as “a tribe of folkish heathens.”

About seven years ago, Grimnir and Jarn-nefr were running a black metal venue in the Lynchburg, Virginia area, and they decided to start a regular Viking theme night. They drank beer, played Icelandic folk music, and started reading the Eddas. As more of their friends became interested, they decided to move things outside. The Wolves started holding regular sumbels in a National Park.

The sumbel is a common practice in Germanic paganism, derived from ancient texts like Beowulf, Lokasenna and Heimskringla. Sumbel loosely means “feast” or “gathering” and often involves “boasting” or “toasting” with drinking horns filled with mead.

As the Wolves entered their second year, the guys started wrestling at sumbel, and some of the members started wearing motorcycle gang style “battle jackets.” From the initial “come one, come all” approach, a natural hierarchy and sense of collective identity emerged. The men felt the need to determine who was “in” and who was “out.” Oaths of loyalty were taken, and new members were filtered through a prospecting system. As Grimnir said to me, “why hang out with just anyone?”

Jarn-nefr and a prospect after a grappling match.

Jarn-nefr and a prospect after a grappling match.

By the end of the third year, the current system was more or less in place, and all new members had to be voted in unanimously at the Lynchburg group at Ulfhiem. The Wolves have members in eleven states and a handful of international prospects. They’ve been denounced as “luckless bastards” by some more “settled” heathen organizations, so they decided to make a joke of it. Several of the Wolves wear “luckless bastard” patches on their battle jackets.

Ulfhiem is a 12-acre property owned by the Wolves. There’s a small cabin, a tool shed, and a structure for smaller fires where music is played. In 2013, the group crowd-funded the construction of a massive longhall, which is almost finished. The majority of the group’s activities, however, are funded by dues.

The afternoon of fighting was part of the Wolves’ monthly “moot” — a word with deep Indo-European roots that means “meeting” or “gathering.” It’s where “moot point” comes from. Originally, “moot point” meant an issue that needed to be resolved by an assembly of a people, but has come to indicate an issue already resolved and therefore irrelevant. Part of the moot’s purpose is for patched members of the Wolves to discuss official business. At some point during the afternoon, Grimnir called them over and they disappeared to vote on patching in a new member — and other subjects unknown to outsiders.

As Sköll chased the sun across the sky, I joined some of the prospects at the top of a hill. They were cutting themselves and using their own blood to draw runes and sigls on a large piece of white fabric. It was the sail for a fifteen or twenty foot long mock wooden ship they’d built earlier. I helped them fill the hull with branches for the night’s ritual — a yearly celebration of Baldr’s funeral.

Baldr's Ship

Baldr’s Ship

The women of the tribe prepared food and we ate as home-brewed mead and beer were passed around. Grimnir joined a few of the other musicians and played country music. A couple of kids had their own wrestling matches. Everyone was restlessly waiting for dusk. As golden hour approached, a tall guy with several runic brands on his lanky frame came over to talk to me about the ritual. His name was Finnulfr, and he’d given a workshop on sigils earlier in the afternoon. He invited me to come down and “get crazy” with the guys in their ritual pre-funk.

Grimnir handed me the end of a bottle of home-brewed mead and told me to kill it. It was deliciously dry compared to the sugary meads I’d tasted in the past. I followed him and a few others into the woods and down a hill to a place called the Ve. There was already a small fire going, and Finnulfr and the others were busy preparing for the ritual. It was almost dark, and the failing light beyond the crackling fire of the Ve seemed cold and blue. Three black, rune-painted drums were beaten in a steady, ominous rhythm. The men took off their cuts and shirts and passed around a bowl full of black ash, blood and  mead. Each Wolf smeared it on his face, chest and arms. One of them asked me to draw algiz on his forehead. I wasn’t sure how much I should participate as an outsider, but I was glad when he smeared the black goop across my face in some unknowable configuration.

After they’d all anointed themselves, they gathered around one of the drums and started a group death drone that sounded a bit like low Mongolian throat singing. Different men picked up different registers, adding growls and howls to an otherworldly mix of primal sounds.

This is the point where you decide whether you want to remain a smug “objective” outsider, or allow yourself to be moved by the experience and become part of it. You decide whether the movie is good enough to lose yourself in it.

I wanted this experience. I traveled across the country for it. I closed my eyes for a while and let go.

Somewhere between the drums and the hums and wild throat singing, out here in the darkness, we folded into the headspace of our barbarian fathers. Men, magic and nature were all the same thing, and the world was alive again.

After a few more minutes, the drumming reached a climax and stopped. The men got up and there were embraces and pats on the back and shoulder and the hand-to-forearm handshake the Wolves favor. There was some joking and quiet laughter, but the Wolves reminded each other to keep the mood.

I was seated beside an eight foot wooden stretcher covered in black cloth that symbolized Baldr’s corpse. Grimnir came over and handed me a plastic milk jug full of wormwood-infused homebrew.

“This should get you in the mood.”

I took a few pulls, but Grimnir and Lyðulfr insisted that I keep chugging it until I’d swallowed what I’d guess was at least a full pint. I drank until they were satisfied and joked about being an old man, but the truth was that I wanted to make sure I’d be able to remember the night.

It was whispered that we had about twenty minutes before the actual faining would begin. Finnulfr explained later that it was called a faining instead of a blot because no sacrificial blood would be spilled during this particular ritual. Some of the guys relaxed, and some of them focused on final preparations. Grimnir, Jarn-nefr, Finnulfr and Lyðulfr had each prepared readings for Baldr’s funeral and they quietly coordinated them.

The story of Baldr’s death, harrowing and rebirth comes from the Völuspá in the Poetic Edda, was developed in the Gylfaginning in Sturluson’s Prose Edda, and was retold by poet Matthew Arnold in 1855.

Baldr was the son of Odin and brother of Thor. As the god of light and purity, he was known as the most beautiful of all the gods. He and his mother, Frigg, dreamed of his death, so Frigg asked all of the plants and animals and stones to swear they’d never hurt him. She overlooked the mistletoe, because it seemed harmless and too young to swear. Because nothing could hurt him, he became invincible, and the gods made a game of hurling things at Baldr — knowing he’d be unharmed. Loki, ever mischievous, made an arrow (or a spear) of the mistletoe, and gave it to the blind god Höðr to shoot at Baldr. When he shot the arrow, Baldr fell dead.

The gods wept and placed his funeral pyre on a ship to burn at sea, “for that is what the dead desire.” In death he went to the underworld, with Hel, and although his mother tried to broker his release, he was forced to remain there until Ragnarök, the end of the world. After the other gods die and the giant Surtr sets fire to the world with his flaming sword, Baldr will be released from the underworld and begin a new age with the survivors of the cataclysm.

The story of Baldr is a story of hope and the rebirth of beauty and purity following an age of darkness and despair.

Baldr's Funeral Pyre

Baldr’s Funeral Pyre

We saw lights following the path down the hill. The drums started up again and everyone took their places. The women and other members of the tribe gathered above the Ve.

When everyone was settled, Finnulfr called out the directions with a spear — invoking the land spirits, gods and ancestors. Grimnir, Jarn-nefr and Lyðulfr gave fiery, nearly Nietzschean speeches about self-overcoming through discipline and will, and increasing the honor of the group by becoming a higher version of oneself. Grimnir reminded the assembled heathens that they were in a place “out of time,” consciously revolting against the modern world and becoming a different kind of man. He spoke about the evils of the encroaching world and concluded that it was a good time to be a wolf, because the future belongs to wolves. Lyðulfr spoke about the rebirth of Baldr and knowing that light will come from darkness. He ended his grim, pagan sermon by shouting “LONG LIVE DEATH!”

After all of the men had spoken, Jarn-nefr introduced a prospect who had travelled from Wyoming to moot. He was a tall, solid guy with white-blond hair. I’d watched him win a boxing match earlier that day. Jarn-nefr wrapped a wolf skin around his shoulders and directed him to a stone podium to read out his oath to all and become a full member of the Wolves of Vinland. His name was “Ref the Fox.”

At that point Finnulfr and the others “loaded” some mead with galdr, meaning that they sung sacred songs over it. The women of the tribe took the sacred mead around the group and filled each horn with enough for one toast to the gods. After drinking, we each spit in a bowl that was passed around, and the contents of the bowl was poured out onto the ground.

Jarn-nefr initiated the procession back up the hill, and told everyone to prepare their thoughts for sumbel and take a moment to be sure their words would be “worthy of the gods.”

The Wolves carried Baldr’s body carefully and somberly up the switchbacks, and laid him on his pyre.

We gathered in a circle around the ship, and sumbel was held, with toasts made by all to gods, heroes and ancestors followed by a round of more personal boasts and oaths. Some toasts were serious, some were grand, some were sad, and some were funny.

When we’d gone around the circle three times, someone placed a rune-painted plaque in front of Baldr’s corpse. Some words were spoken in his honor, and Jarn-nefr set the ship on fire. We watched the conflagration grow from a light crackling of hay bales and branches to a blazing bonfire with flames jumping fifteen or twenty feet in air.

Baldr's Burning Ship

Baldr’s Burning Ship

The tribe dispersed, with folks going back to the smaller fire to check on children or to grab musical instruments or more booze. Several songs were sung in unison, including the Wolves’ own battle hymn, “I’m A Good Old Rebel” and some old seafaring tunes. I pulled out a pack of cigars, offered one to Grimnir and a couple of the other guys. We smoked them by the calmed fire, which still glowed in the outline of a ship. Grimnir put the moves on an unattached female and disappeared into the woods. Some of the Wolves retired to tents, some to cars and some just passed out in the dirt next to the glowing coals.

The Wolves wouldn’t want me to trivialize my experience by comparing it to something as bougie as a television show, but I have to admit that my time at Ulfheim felt like a cross between Sons of Anarchy and the Vikings.

The exception is that, unlike those shows, Ulfheim is not just a set up for another go-girl narrative or another hair-pulling drama between women. What happens at Ulfheim is designed to create authentic brotherhood between men. It’s about escaping to another world, not just for an hour or even a day, but for good. The Wolves of Vinland are becoming barbarians. They’re leaving behind attachments to the state, to enforced egalitarianism, to desperate commercialism, to this grotesque modern world of synthetic beauty and dead gods. They’re building an autonomous zone, a community defined by face-to-face and fist-to-face  connections where manliness and honor matter again.

If they can do it, what’s stopping you?


The Way of Men - Buy Now on AmazonJack Donovan is the author of The Way of MenHis latest book is a collection of essays, titled A Sky Without EaglesTo read more of his work on masculinity and tribalism, visit www.jack-donovan.com/


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Start The World Podcast – Episode#7 – The Wolves of Vinland
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Jack Donovan at Baldr's Funeral 2014
Blog, Links and Updates, STW Podcasts

Recent Podcasts, Upcoming Feature

Jack Donovan at Baldr's Funeral 2014I spent last weekend with the Wolves of Vinland, a scrappy tribe of serious heathens in Virginia. I’ll be publishing a feature report on that experience on Monday, June 16.

Until then, here are some recent podcasts I’ve appeared on that you may want to check out.


Radix: Vanguard Radio

Richard Spencer and I had a great conversation about “so this is how it ends” phenomena like “rape culture,” mass shootings, hashtag wars, #yesallwomen and the politics of outrage.


The Pressure Project

Master Chim, who runs some MMA gyms in New York, started a podcast-based movement inspiring men to “re-embrace their masculinity through honor and brotherhood.” He’s a fun guy, and he’s blowing up Facebook with great memes. Check out his site.


Knowledge for Men

Host Andrew Ferebee has interviewed Robert Greene, MMA legend Bas Rutten, and “No More Mr. Nice Guy” author Dr. Robert Glover. We talked about The Way of Men and masculinity in the modern world.