For an Old Comrade


Hey brother, we knew each other for almost five years, drank mead and fireball like wolves on the solstice nights at ‘the spot’ by the lake, hiked the woods of Rattlesnake Point, and walked beside the Credit River. The women came and went, and we stayed true to brotherhood in the end. We went to every metal gig in Toronto we could manage, and had some mutual friends. Our ways branched off in a tree planting camp several years ago, when I went back to Texas, and you went home. Wondering if you still live in the province, Ryan Pryde? What are you doing with your life?


Living in the Round: Life in a Mongolian Yurt

The World's Best Photos of mongolia and yurt - Flickr Hive ...

Unless you’ve been to the Asiatic steppe of Mongolia and Tibet, you may not know what a yurt is. Actually they have been a primary dwelling space even back when Genghis Khan ruled the Mongol emprie, and they are round, made of indigenous materials and can be built down and transported across the land, hearkening back to the times when the Kazakh hunters and nomadic Mongolian peoples roamed across the land with their camels, yaks, and few possessions. These beautiful curved structures have no corners and only one wall that surrounds the circular space within. The walls are made of heavy canvas, traditionally probably made of leather pelts, inside is a think felted wool of sheep, with the inside braces hand cut of wood, tied with camel rawhide, held together with horsehair around the perimeter of the wall, on top the urgh which is a weather protective cover is painted with the unending knot, one that weaves into itself, and the interior yurt poles are also painted with designs of dunes, clouds, waves, and flowing steppe grass, at least these are the images I see. It is held up in the middle of the hut by two beams, almost like an Irminsul pole. They are functional in four seasons, are elegantly beautiful, they also have a propensity to increase dream frequency.

Who run the world? G I R L S! — Hello World Civ

I have made one of these small yurts my winter home and have now been in the northern Ontario forest for almost a month, lending my two hands and the fire of my accumulated skill and luck to some new friends who are trying to get off grid, and gather a small hamlet around them while subsisting off the land, and growing their own family.  My good friend who owns the yurts is also a herbal maiden, mother, yogi, ex-midwife, she hunts with a shotgun, and is a pretty good kitchen witch. I have come to know her as a sister of the tribe, and we have made some very important realizations about the future of this place. These nordic winter days wane early, and leave just the prime of the morning and afternoon for any real progress on the land, but we have been able to tackle a few projects, and initiate the land clearing deeper in the bush for the eventual spring move of the yurt farm. So far we have installed a new chimney in the sauna, where on especially cold nights it is favorable to sweat by the infrared heat of the flames. We built a deluxe dog hotel, for three German Sheppard’s, waterproofed the one man yurt, and are currently renovating a tiny home on wheels for winter sleeping spaces. Tombs of seasoned wood have been split by the cord, stacked, burned and cooked over, trees have been felled, and the wild hunts have brought us out on the land to stalk rabbit and partridge. We’ve fired no shots yet, but we did find the home of two such porcupines at a crystal vein on the ridge of a small cliff, where we built an inuk’shuk, and made offerings to the old Gods.

Time spent in the yurt is usually focused on preparing the next meal; bison burgers, hearty chilies and stir fries, pancakes, homemade pizza, locally caught fish, hunted partridge, lots of root veg, and the meat of the free range animals that lived and were harvested on the farm itself, both from this property and the first location in the south. This means, thick slices of bacon, and organic chicken. The food has been abundant and healthy. We’re also roasting our own coffee beans and brewing some kombucha, and making just about everything from scratch. In the mother yurt there is electricity, but in the one man where I live, there is no wired connection, only a solar panel on the outside of the yurt, enough to power an l.e.d. for about 3 hours, or charge my camera once. There is no running water which makes simple things like doing dishes or heeding nature’s call rather different than living in a normal home. Having to divorce one’s feeling from constant comfort, waking in the middle of a -25 night, stoking the fire over again and walking through two feet of snow to get to the outhouse is a kind of raw connection with place in the most humble of ways. Wifi signal is weak if at all on says when it snows, and I use a solitary beeswax candle for my primary light source in the morning when I groom or at night for brushing up on some books. Primitive housing is not unfamiliar to me, but these conditions are the ways in which I prefer to live. In touch with what is real, and stripped down. Lacking the material excess of modern consumer lifestyle, where everything one owns must have a multi purpose or it is in the way, and creates clutter. When you live in a yurt of only twelve foot diameter floor space, everything places therein takes on a kind of zen-like quality, to be placed aright, even the way the wood is stacked up and the orientation of the bed, I have my head to the west with the setting sun, the door of the yurt is low, facing the east, which encourages the guest to enter and leave with grace. I try not to bring any negative energy into the space, whether it be behavioral, emotional or electrical. In the morning I have been making chaga, and at night reading a Saga or verses from the Havamal. Sometimes the snow piles high at the threshold of my door then freezes it shut in the night, which can be a interesting lesson on the trickiness of winter weather. On clearer nights I can see the moon through the vinyl sky windows.

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In the meanwhile we are working hard on a tiny home that will be moved further into the bush to become off grid, and more autonomous. Tiny homes are gaining popularity in Europe and North America, this one has a barnhouse style and will provide the basic sleeping quarters. Life in the yurt can be challenging as privacy is compromised, and space is limited. The facilities are rustic, and are grounded in a more humble mode of life. There are the boasting rites as well of saying you live in a Mongolian hand-built home, shipped from the other side of the world. There is another yurt farm about two hours from here with buffalo, and living in the round seems to be gaining intrigue amongst old worlders, and it beats living in a box with four walls and corners, in my honest opinion.

Oaxacan Gathering of the Rainbow People

It’s been but a moonth since I left my Atlantic island of Newfoundland, from the full moon of December and the solstitial equinoxing of the days, through the passage of yuletimes, and across the threshold of the new year. For the first time in my twenty-six times around our star, I’ve been able to spend more time under the sun, the winter snows have not climbed ’round my cabin door, and the chill has been cast off in exchange for the tropics.
This snowbird exodus to warmer climates is not new to me, but unique in its setting, this time it took me across to the other point of a continent, back to a familiar home of past traveling grounds in southern Oaxaca for the Rainbow Gathering.

After two full days of traveling by car, boat, and three planes, I left a frigid Canadian land in a -15 degree cloak, to a balmy +33 tropical paradise in Huatulco. I decided to fly via a lesser known Brazilian company this time called Airprojects, who charges in Brazilian Reals, then converts through US dollars, and then the local currency of which of course my final funds were in Canadian for which I secured the flight for extremely cheap. When arriving in Huatulco airport, I was greeted by thatched grass roofs, palm stands, aromatic winds, and a pleasant light. It was far removed from the aesthetic of every industrial airport I’ve flown to. From here I haggled a deal with a taxi to drive me the hour and a half to the Zipolite playa, where I would stay the next three nights. Zipolite and its neighboring beach Mazunte are old tramping grounds of mine, where I had lived and worked for two weeks in 2015 at the Shambhala commune. It was the original accommodation on the Zipolite playa, existing before all the other modern hotels and hostels, originally from the late 60’s. Also an early ceremonial space for the Zapatistas. The owner Gloria was close friends with the famous mushroom curandera Maria Sabina. The air of the place cleaned me of past loss. Here I met with a flitting romance, a lover from Sweden, and together we would head to the Rainbow Gathering in Rincon Bonito.

First we took a collectivo through San Augustinillo, Mazunte, and San Diego, then hitch another truck to Tonameca, and finally a taxi down a long tumultuous dirt road, fording a river, and climbing steep banks. After this we hiked several kilometers in the wrong direction, and tried vainly to ask for the way to where the river met the valley. Finally we seemed to meet the village mother, and plenty of young children, she appointed four kids to lead us back to a banana plantation that we passed on the way in, and then down a trail to the house of a local named Melardo. From here we crossed through his yard, and down a slope through more banana trees, palms, corn stalks, and patches of squash, steeply down into a rift, and found the river, following upstream until the path lead to a shallow crossing. On the way, we came upon three other travelers, a Norwegian from the FuckforForest organization and two Mexicans also looking for the Rainbow Gathering. As the sun was setting we found the camp, on the other side of the river, and crossed the current to the greetings of ‘Welcome Home’ from two naked hippies on the other side. So far, so good I thought, we were just in time for the food circle.

An archaic Hopi prophecy spake of the Rainbow People long before the first gatherings took place. “There will come a day when people of all races, colors, and creeds will put aside their differences. They will come together in love, joining hands in unification, to heal the Earth and all Her children. They will move over the Earth like a great Whirling Rainbow, bringing peace, understanding and healing everywhere they go. Many creatures thought to be extinct or mythical will resurface at this time; the great trees that perished will return almost overnight. All living things will flourish, drawing sustenance from the breast of our Mother, the Earth.”

Now the Rainbow tribe lives the world over, and is re-uniting lost souls, bohemians, beatniks, hippies, nomads, and vagabonds alike. This wasn’t my first, I slept in a grandfather oak tree for one month in Hay-on-Wye, Wales in my hammock a year and a half, and gathered for one week in Gotland for the annual Ting last summer before returning to Mexico for this union. We were small, by far a more intimate gathering, encamped on the side of a hill, next to cattle pasturage, and farm land. Papayas, bananas, and oranges grew on the fringes of the river, and frail flowered orchids dipped their grassy arms in the tumbling waters. We represented several countries together with brothers and sisters coming as far as Israel, Germany, Italy, Norway, Hawai’i, and Canada. We shared two meals a day, usually a raw porridge with a melody of local fruits, eaten around the fire. Song was part of the meal, and a collective OM grounded our intentions on family and community. The magic hat, circled around after we broke our fast, and donations of a few pesos kept food in our bellies and supplied some funds for essential tools like pots, pick-ax, plates, and cooking utensils. When nature called, we dug a pit and used the African method of cleansing ourselves. Of course, sometimes this did not always work, and a few of our family fell ill from hygiene issues. On the fourth day I burned out, and my body completely shut down, not due to hygiene but for the PH of my blood. I knew going from winter to summer in one day would eventually take its toll on me. Fortunately I summoned enough strength through my condition to submerge in the cool river several times a day, maintain enough sun exposure, and eat plenty of juicy fruits.

This happened on the solstice, when the family held a drum and cacao ceremony. I managed to drag myself to the circle for a few rounds of chocolate drinking, the first a sweet brew with honey, and the next three I took a dark blend with chili. I think this healed me, because the next day I felt relieved, and back nearly to full health, after a day of restoration, making time for yoga on the river boulders, swimming, sunbathing, and fire sitting, with a morning coffee circle cleanse shared among brothers, I felt that I had fully adapted to the Central American climate. I spent the days walking barefoot around the land, learning Spanish from a beautiful senorita, trading stories, making love, and helping with the cooking in our primitive kitchen. We ate well, despite the remoteness of our camp.
Local Mayan food, some Spanish and American imports, and little processed foods, naturally vegetarian or vegan, and once even had some late night crepes in the jungle. The presence of youth in our camp kept our spirits light, and it felt comfortable to wander in the nude. Some brothers took LSD, and made music on a marimba, and we held massage sessions and a poetry workshop in mud huts that had been reclaimed by small bats. I connected to each person in a different way, but found I could relate easily on most things, on the ethics of why and how we all got here, and held a strong appreciation for Pacha Mama, who kept us all together. Rumor was passed around of a Guatemalan Rainbow gathering, and as we started to come down from the peak of our tribal unity and look to other prospects, new plans emerged.

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On Christmas eve, most of the family left for the Pacific Coast, so we followed in tow, and spent Navidad back on the playa, at the El Peyote hostel, we were fifteen now, and we feasted on fish, chicken, wine, rice, and pancakes, with sweet breads for desert, as we watched the amber sun hide beneath sea stacks swarmed by marine birds. The following day, we lined up a good deal with a local boatman to take us out to snorkel with dolphins, and so as the Rainbow family, we traveled in caravan to Puerto Angel to find our boat, and sped out towards deeper waters. Dolphins we did find, nearly a hundred of them in a school, and they used every available opportunity to show off their aeronautic skills, as well as keeping pace in front of the hull of the boat while cruising along. From the deeps, we marooned back to a private beach to dive in swells hiding elaborate coral, swordfish, and multi-colored aquafauna. This was for me, my first time wearing a snorkel, and it felt
unnatural for me, so most of the time, I opted for free diving instead. We sailed past two rock formations near the coast, resembling an Apache warrior and a Gorilla. It was probably the best 165 pesos I ever invested. By nightfall we walked the streets, as the whole town turned to a market selling handicrafts, sandals, wood-fired pizza, psychedelic art, and apparel. Some of us danced, while I stayed on the playa and read Ram Dass and swayed in my hammock. It was near impossible to sleep without getting eaten by mosquitoes however, and I was anxious to leave. Soon we would go our separate ways, and together with me Swedish lover, a brother from Israel, and another from Germany, we took an overnight bus to San Cristobal, making our final leavings from the humid coast to the mountains of Chiapas.


Wife Hunting

In the Darwinian view, why is there any reason why we shouldn’t set parameters, and rigorously hunt for a partner in this mating game of life who not only impresses our eyes, but can offer something to the courtship that will become useful and grow. Many women have come and gone in this life, that is just the nature of modern day relationships, people are afraid of commitment, or don’t have the wisdom and spiritual patience to recognize monogamy as a worthwhile experiment. There is a balance here, but one rarely kept.
I have shared my nest with those both older and younger in age and maturity, have forged long distance relationships from oceans apart only to see them wither on the vine like rotting leaves, I have lived every sad country song of love lost, and gained only to lose it again and being kept apart from my lovers arms by interminable circumstances. I have seen beautiful goddesses work black magic and ruin their reputation, and broken women with nothing to their name emanate the purest energies of love, longing and honor. I get lost in the romantic hunt, in the forever sacrifice of being alone, and again thinking you have found a heart like yours. They are a rare breed, the girls of the past, and those I have yet to meet. Some living in their own kingdom, past their stage of opening their doors, or their legs to anyone new. Others, with a confused passion seek the thrills of free love, so called innocence, and the pleasures of the flesh.

I have learned a lot about myself, some things I didn’t want to look at, others I knew were there buried in the rubble and waiting to be cleaned off, or the revered traits I knew were latent but could never really acknowledge. Traveling through this world, by their pull of affection and desire, the women that make me me. Yet, I have lost sight of them, or at least the memories of them are what I have left, and special fragments of their existence that once was, a borrowed sweater, a coyote pelt, crystals and an iron bird, maybe a few strands of hair, or an avocado seed that we ate, carved into a pendant. These are the tangible proofs of my belonging, at least once, to her, and no other, and yet sometimes there seems to be another on the outside, waiting to come in, but when they don’t, you just fondle the items leftover, and think about the hours, days, weeks, months, a kind of force illusion.

Maybe it is that I am hard to keep up to, and this would be true. The woman of my deepest heart would need to support my mission, whatever that is, and if not share in my obsessions, then at least acknowledge them as real. So often it is about the menial substances that get in the way; money, timing, distance, law, nothing to counter the presence of true love, yet somehow like great walls of limitation. I am left wandering, wondering where to find her, on my travels? in a bar? in the countryside? on the street? online? There is always the romantic ideal, and I am one who tries to preserve such sentiments, yet there is only so much waiting a man can do. His primal nature overcomes in the end. The need to find a mate, a lover, an ally, a wife. All of these. So here I am with only a semblance of what could be, caught in all my desires and expectations. I am tired of being alone, and feeling isolated on this planet. Though I am a full person, and do not seek ‘my other half’, I hold open my hand to her who would be the counterpart to my highest self. Where there is true growth, and freedom of being all.


Memories in a Mason Jar: Those Were my Friends

I’ve always wondered how the funeral speeches of truly great men and women would sound through the mouths of those he met and loved and left, who stood to say a thing or two about his life. Like the first world explorers, the heroes and heroines of the viking sagas, and the men and women sung about in folkloric ballads, their nature sounds so exotic and far away from us that we can hardly imagine meeting such people in our day to day life. Those with such a persona and commanding presence so as to be even worthy of reverence. I have crossed paths with a few, but none so often. I’ve met a few thousand more, in hostels, on the street, at festivals, and forgot them easily, because they were swimming with the school, they didn’t stand out. Now there’s nothing wrong with that on most good days, it’s a lot easier to move around the flock unnoticed sometimes, but those that whose memories have really stay with me, are those who have changed their direction and gone upstream, against the herd, lived long and humble lives, behind every action was a means of inspiration, and behind every story a life experience, these were some of my friends…


I met a man an old storyteller Wales, his name was Hymn, nothing less, nothing more, he was a weather Scottsman actually, but we met around a fire, covered in ash, giving our selves to pacha mama. He was a master of Reiki, but would never say so himself, instead in in primal slow dance movements linked in body at all times, he could work some pretty magic healing. Like a skeleton becoming aligned again after being bent and grown in the wrong direction. He was a wanderer of the W.I.S.E. isles, living off his art, writing poetry  on the sidewalks in chalk,  and you might be able to meet him in the streets of Camden, on the trails western England or where I found him, at a rainbow gathering. His candor was like the wise grandpa most people wish they grew up with, talking always in rhyme and poetics, a voice that spoke with a calming and humble attention. Each line of his face was a thousand miles traveled barefoot, as he gazed always on the horizon, the sunrise, the sunset, and into the wind, smelling for the fauna and flora ahead.


I met a vagabundo from Spain, an old hobo to most eyes, a young spirit in heart. He told me he came from Bristol, the week before, where he lived in the Cheddar Gorge. He slept in a cave there for one year, and would meet thousands of tourists during the season, offering them coffee, exchanging stories, some even wanting to film him or get his picture. This soft spoken old man, weathered with the miles, but equipped as a soldier, we drank the black medicine together by the early warmth of a kindled fire, in a sheepfold somewhere in Welsh country. Knowledge known only from places been, small advice’s and vices on life that I could yield or avoid. He drank from the springs, and collected wood for the sacred fire, an indigenous soul held in his rib cage. I listened to his tales, of his days as a farmer and cowboy, until some Irish gypsies stole his horses, he continued to wanderlust on his own hooves.

I met a girl in Newfoundland, she picked me up on the road on a foggy cold morning. She said she was camping in the National park, and had parents that lived on the island. She drove me a few miles and we exchanged stories. She was a barista in Halifax, but wanted a change in lifestyle. After awhile I took the boat back to the mainland and we met again, we went around the city, trying to find her some more work at a coffee house, but it never paled. Instead she decided to apprentice on a local farm, though she would say it was I who inspired her, I found it mutually inspiring back to witness such a profound lifestyle change almost overnight. We kept on in contact overseas when I moved away, and a year later I found she had finished her apprenticeship, and was looking for a new one on yet another farm, she had learned so much by the time when we met again, and every so often I hear from her, and her times on the farm.
And sometimes the woman you meet you tend to fall in love with. When tramping in the deep south across the Arizona desert, I met the woman who would change my life in such maturing and profound ways, she has never left into fleeting memory. A mother of four sons, and a natural born gypsy, she was from the state, but moved to Texas to live an independent existence, cleaned up her life, and had her own house. Tall, dark, and mysterious, a feral woman at heart. She gave it up in the end, and sought a life of travel, so she bought an ambulance from the 80’s and ran her tumblr_n4x421shJZ1romrx1o1_1280apothecary business out the back of it. We met at a truck stop in Tucson, but we ‘knew’ about each other before. I helped her through a grief, and she helped me with mine, we painted the ambulance black, with red pinstriped ravens and runes on the sides, and built in a queen bed to the back, I helped her get the apothecary going again, and we lived in the desert for a romantic week. She told of one of her sons, who hunted deer at only age 9, and we cooked it slowly in spices over the flames, talked into the night, slept in a tent and fought of raccoons who tried to steal our meet. I had to leave her one day, and head to Canada, little did I know it was the last time I would see her, borders can be rough, and relationships harder and more defeating than the canyons and mountains I crossed. My heart pined for something left that never came, but I remembered and cherished to even know her…

 “The only thing I miss is my friends.  And it’s almost impossible to have any friends, at this level.  Jealousy is a great power.  Jealousy and fear.  Your fear goes to your worst, and asks for help to destroy your fear.  But in truth, your fear is your best friend.  It protects you, it protects everyone you love.” ~CM


7 Seasons with a Grizzly Bear

She came to me in eostre of 2013, on a day in the Okanagan Valleys of lower British Columbia. I found her sitting in one of the booths, covered over with a layer of dust, amidst other antiques, and curio, watched over by a man who was himself quite grizzly. He greeted my aroused interest in the objects he had lying around, and tried to purvey his collection a little bit to my attentions, some velvet antlers, and tanned bone skulls caught my eye and I immediately picked them up, and askance of from where they came, “this one is a mountain lion from usa, and this one a grizzly from these hills”. I had to have them, and I bartered a good deal of 80$ for the skulls and the antlers, with a mexican blanket from his pile. The skull was rather small for a grizzly, probably a 3-4 year old female without the pronounced brow ridge and dental bulk. The mountain lion too was young, but when I laid my hands on them I felt I had made two lifelong friends.

The grizzly bear and lion sat outside my camp in the mountains on a log for a few weeks beside my tent, before I packed up and headed east across the country, with the antlers and the two skulls packed into my bag. Since then, I have lived in roughly 40 part-stay locations on my nomadic travels, and had carried these totems with me the way through; canada, scotland, england, wales, iceland, norway, denmark, and mexico, then back to canada. The mountain lion was gifted to my partner 3 seasons after acquiring it, but the bear and the antlers stay proudly in my pack for much longer, until the antlers too were gifted to my squat house in Copenhagen. The Grizzly lasted the longest with me and is now in safe keeping, she has been a protector of the medicines I carry. Since I do not rely on hospitals, I carry a lot of my own medicines, or forage for plants that have healing abilities, and sometimes these are not looked on with respect by authorities. That being said, I have never had them taken away, or searched, and I believe it is because of the bear. Every country entered, she was there with me, through the airplanes modalities and wear and tear of a gypsy life. As a guardian spirit in the tipi I slept in for 3 nights in Vermont, on the calfskin that adorned my floor in my scottish highland bunkouse, in my center shrine of a roundhouse in Wales, and coffee table of an Icelandic cottage to the sleep cabin shelf on a float in the Copenhagen harbor. Her empty eyes have mothered my spirit through the woods, the mountains and back to the primitive. It is no easy burden to carry two animal skulls with you everywhere you go, but I am happy I did. Now she is in safe keeping with my brother back in southern Canada, and would it only be synchronous with the ally, that to my amazement on a walk down the Atlantic beaches of Nova Scotia, I find the front portion of a male Black Bear, with no lower mandibles or cranium present, but still all teeth, some heavily ground down by diet, fitting firmly in the skull, which now sits on my ‘mantle’ here in the maritimes.


I’m Doing this so You don’t Have to.

Actually there may be a dose of divine/mythic synchronization here involved in this lifestyle, but I thought I would speak on the realities one must surrender themselves to, in order to go the way of the gypsy. A confused, and ugly spirited mexican man recently told me “you’re homeless, you’re a bum, that’s all there is”… I looked him in the eyes and said “How can a man be homeless on earth?” He had just finished ego tripping on me, and ranting about how I was reflecting what he observed as a ‘higher way’ somehow in a negative fashion, stuck in the conflagration of a personal turmoil in which he could not hold his tranquility. He seemed offended by my calm and cohere answers to his belligerent feedback, and took offense to any remote action of altruism because of the apparent espousal of superiority he believed it to represent. Here I am, this one little guy, just being what I know how to be, and responsible only for myself, I am the only individual able to judge myself in right or wrong, and I have people constantly on my back trying to push off their own guilt, judgement, and shadows on me.

“I am doing this so you don’t have to”. My message to this world, is bringing peace, love, and coherence to society, and as long as I view traveling as a means to experience the cultures, spaces and places of the world, this will always be my play. In the words of Ram Dass “One must cultivate the presence of the witness”, of he who is not self-direct, but in tune with his or her own role and purpose of this world. From this perspective, I can understand, sympathize, and anticipate the antagonism, fear, rivalry, awe, love and fellowship this meandering vision takes form as. Not everyone wants to live in these polar opposites of emotion 24/7, and engage themselves with the totality of a nomadic lifestyle while keeping it together enough to still be useful in a more overarching sense of total existence. And not everyone can. I am not saying this is a elitist point of view, but simply seeing it AS IT IS, and SO BE IT. I do this so you don’t have to. In the way that one may risk their life for the benefit of their country, but this is not required for the whole.

The dharma of this work is a messenger, it is easily recognizable as an archetypal role, filled, and fulfilled by those called to take it up over the dawn of our time. Harsh opposition is met with by persons who think outside their mind, and cruelty is directed at him who corrects the lies. Those I can think of, that inspire and lead me in some form or manner might be the likes of outlaws, prophets, yogis, working men, wanderers, healers, philosophers, or a free loving hippie out on the road beside me, and I do believe there is a current of electricity that runs through these otherkin that unites them in their direction and actions in the world. You can make up your own mind on this one. These are not really new in essence, but fitting within a mosiac of personas that one can inhabit in this incarnation, BUT only if they are meant to. So, in saying “I am doing this so you don’t have to” I am only acknowledging a place of finding. No one can live without the expectation of complete acceptance or complete repulsion, but one can live with the truth that both of these will impress upon you. Not everyone likes a gypsy or a nomad, they see it as a threat to their secure reality. I have been thrown out of people’s houses for nothing more eschewing of a more domesticated demeanor or failing to serve them on hand and foot at all times. I have wandered without cause or attachment, in places unknown, in the dark so to speak, completely penniless and unable to speak the tongue of the men and women who lived there and left not as stranger, but as friend. In this reality, you can sleep in a cave, or a mansion and take both as the natural flow. The ‘negative’ always turns it’s circle and reaps the ‘positive’ the more one is susceptible and trusts in their way. I have worked my salt and earned my reputation of those who Know, who actually have metaphorically walked in my boots. he who has been a good Indian to his fellow men. And I ask people only if I were to make one demand that they actually slip into this reality, and experience it for oneself before espousing their own rhetoric of how they claim it to be.

Show them Wotan, and a fire will be lit in their hearts…



Rainbow Nomad

To live in the nature is a fine thing to experience, it is only the minority of the human collective who truly dare to surrender themselves to paradoxically simple lives, while the majority feel an inherit conditioning from birth to be or
behave a certain way. The Rainbow family are one growing tribe of folk that need no labels or boundaries to their shared freedom. For the last month, the wyrd sisters have kept me in Wales, for my last days in the W.I.S.E. islands. Capping off a fourteen month stay at the welsh rainbow gathering in Hay-on-the-Wye. Here, I was, and there I be.
From thee new moon to thee new moon, my hammock became my bed, strung gingerly neath the branches of an elder father oak. This is where I would come to terms with myself, shed old burdens, forge a path outwards, and contemplate romance under a big sky.

The ritual of the rising sun day egged out new rainbow people to the camp, others more seasoned in the ways of the gathering crawling from their shelters for vegan coffee and warmth by the sacred fire. The rainbow stew, that is, the eternal pots of porridge were already in the making. People stagger to food circle and fill their bellies. I enjoyed this routine, breaking our fast around the flames in a circle, and everyday new stories going through the vine as people congregate from all over Europe and World to one small horse field, bringing their history, their problems, but all their love first hand. This was my virgin rainbow gathering experience, but as an elder told me, ‘everyone is already a rainbow, they just don’t know it yet’. I came seeking nothing, expecting nothing, and wanting nothing, with only the slip of a tongue of any mention of a Rainbow Gathering in the WISE isles. It is to my honor I owe to three sun tanned tramps I met in Arizona at the TTT truckstop who first told me of the Rainbow. I had never heard such a thing, only now that hundreds if not thousands will gather for peace and take care of each other. They spoke of a large gathering in Utah, and I tried to find my way there later that year. Denied at the US homeland, maybe this was a sign, I wasn’t ready to bring my presence. Now I was finally here, stepping into a nearly empty field looking for some travelers to welcome me home, I gave up a comfortable situation where I was staying in a Celtic house with all the food I could want to join the congregation. And a long journey later, I came upon a small circle of vagabond children of the world, eating heartily, I was in the right place.

This was a time of purest intent and healing, I had just come off 7 months of hard labor, and my body begged to rest, the way a hobo seeks his tobacco. I knew that I shall contribute my hands and heart for The Family, but with this knowing came the need to allow myself to receive as well. Collecting wood, finding bliss, spring mission, sacred fire watching, food gathering, spiritual discourse, this was the be to pattern of the first half of the gathering for me. A steady rise in energy, like an Icelandic geyser until the power of surrounding energies peaks at the full moon. And there we held our numbers strongest, lsd and ganja were shifting hands, more drums circulated and rapped until the dawns, workshops were starting to happen. These are all sacred memories.

I recognized my time to heal, both this poor skeleton, and an absence of love in my life. Many a sister came my way with words and gestures of remedy, and brother with comradeship and collaboration. I met two lovers from Germany, a man named Bear, and a man named Lion, while I was Wolf in the pack, wise medicine women and powerful shamans, a fellow Icelander, a story teller from the island, and burgeoning new allies from Hungary, Spain, Netherlands, and Australia. The shared stories of these individuals were overwhelmingly inspiring, as I recanted my own tracks behind me. Tales of one man I met who lived in a cave for a year at the Cheddar Gorge, and a sister from my homeland who has been drifting for five years, almost entirely without money, while I listened in to a graying storyteller, smith poetry by the flames, who writes on the ground to make his way around. It was deeply moving to listen to one of the elders speak of his full circle around different Rainbow gatherings, through the Canary islands, Romania, Hungary, Spain and Wales, one year of this lifestyle, surely a noble way to live. He taught of his wisdoms gained from the Lakota, we sung Ayahuasca songs in the shade, and waxed on about medicina and nomad caravans.

A new feeling of power came to me after a shamanic breathwork session in a bell tent with two well experienced guides. It was a physical trip for me, a higher vibrational travel of my physically inert body, going through different layers of the earth, embracing pacha mama, the trees, the water, the air, the animal that is me, and coming out the other side where I began. This set the course of a talk about the Hopi Indians, their prophecy and the creators law with another elder with Nordic heritage who also spent time with the grandfathers. I received a medicine wheel. stick and poke tattoo under the sanctuary oak tree some days later from a German comrade, in a ceremonial way with Aztecan music and a sacred fire. I had all the time in the world, for anything I desired. The vistas of the Brecon Beacons, perceived during one climb in the hills were medicinal to the soul.

The double rainbow bridge did shine amongst the darkest of days of the gathering as a negative energy seemed to manifest and dissipate from the outside, while the family injected their love into its remedy. Ideas began to manifest in the minds of the collective for a permanent gathering as the days began to wane, everyone had co-mingled and were initiating new plans, while others simply waited for that voice we call conscience to pull them. My own journey now takes me back to the land beyond the north winds, Thulean Iceland for scouting of new Rainbow land, venturing in open country and maybe a little old time work on the side. The path of the nomad will eventually lead me back into my labor forays, perhaps in the Scandinavia countries, but it has taken on a new caliber. I see myself traveling with an ally for the first time in over two years wandering alone, it won’t last long for my self styled pattern will shift rails soon, then I shall find myself in Mexico and South America at the end tide of this year.

We share our lives out of the love to BE, there are now three families that I can call to for brother, sister, mother, father. I am part of the all that is the gypsy caravan of Rainbow people. In my heart is set the compass to follow the gathering through Europe in another year of age, and I will know when that time is only through intuition and initiation. Whether it is a journey on foot of a hundred miles, a horse trek through mountains or the aerial navigation of borders, I look forward to those words again, Welcome Home.


“When the earth is ravaged and the animals are dying,
a new tribe of people shall come unto the earth from many colors, classes, creeds,
and who by their actions and deeds shall make the earth green again.
They will be known as the warriors of the Rainbow”
– Old Native American Prophecy –


Tramp Life Chapter 4: Finding the Clan

If there is no better purpose to wander alone, it is to discover the clan that you actually have. Out in the world, a tramp wanders from state to state, country to country, and continent to continent. An outcast usually, from societies eyes, always on the run, and living far from civilization. Company is held more often with the animals than humans, but in those far places, others of the same ilk choose to dwell. In those cores of activity, like a hive of wasps, vagabonds, hobos, tramps and the like will congregate, and discover they are not so different from one another, or at least their similarities are far more revealing, and their differences unique.

My own personal journey has been following a grail. I have been on the road for nearly 17 months, on the path of self sacrifice to the higher self. My homeland is Canada, but my grail land is Scandinavia. In a matter of 2-3 years I see myself setting down the first roots in a new land, and building a stable homestead, either in Bergen, Norway or the farm country of Iceland. I realized this was what I wanted 9 years ago, and have been chasing it since, chipping away at the stone, learning skills, building reputation, and collecting contacts around the world in order to mete out a methodical and dignified approach to migrating there. Along the way I have met people who have taken interest in the tribal ideals of sharing a sacred property,
the construction of cabins, buildings and smithies, creating holy ve for the heathen gods on the land, and opening the territory to those who are seeking, and are of like mind. To build such a thing requires a lot of time, careful planning, willingness, and unfortunately that old bane, money, at least to get started. To be completely self sufficient is the apex of what the lifestyle would come to, using permaculture principles so that the nature will not be exploited. To do all of this takes something else than skill and monetary funds though, there must be a culture who knows how.

The Culture: is a band of people; farmers, travellers, heathens, outlaws, builders, artists, and homesteaders. Those who know what is takes to hold a role that is intrinsic to the clanic lifestyle. Those who have either spent their early years in villages, and carry a lot of traditional knowledge or have attained their wisdom along the way. In this modern industrial havoc age, this spiritual ice age and time of social downfall, the tribe has become degraded as backwards, criminalistic folk who are old fashioned, un-intelligent, and dangerous. This heap of abuse against the organic instinct of the community has so far carried on mostly unnoticed except for those involved. If you read the news, or some of the Vice world news, you will come across such articles about the killing, exploitation, and raping of a peoples way, not only their lives, but their internity. As someone closely affiliated with the tribal ways, and bent on the same trail of living a nomadic, agrarian, and spiritual lifestyle, I find this painful in mine own heart. When I read an article about how Indigenous american women are sexually abused and murdered, or the Pacific Coast tribes who now have no drinking water, and losing their land, their iconic animals (Spirit Bear), and their customs because of encroachment, disaster, and development, it rips apart out of me as well. The damage is does to the primordial method of living is immesurable.

I know part of my role in this life is to keep old ways alive, as a member of the Rune Gild, as a heathen, and as a human being. I am impelled to give of myself to my fellow man or woman, for those who truly deserve it. I travel so I can bring people together, through relationships, through lovers, or friends. Those who may otherwise not meet because of distance, and who are known close kin. When enough of these people are gathered in the right place, there is a particular spirit which is shared. The hamingja, is of a tribal essence, where pre-conceived barriers of social class, criminality, wealth, or life experiences become gray and irrelevant. A conciousness is born out of this rite of the gatherings. Each strives to attain to the highest human endeavor of building something within that is larger than any individual entity can.


Roadkill Blóts

The Blót has and always will be a sacred Germanic heathen tradition, and I have been counsel and vitki to a number of Blóts in the last two years, since joining the Rune Gild, and an old member of the Galdragildi. There are heathens that will always delineate from how and when a Blót should be performed, the animals acceptable for sacrifice to the Gods, and the killing methods. Witch each variable allowing for a completely different experience. Seeing multiple animals as Blót, is far more dynamic and emotional than seeing one, though even watching a single sentient lifeform suffer is never very pleasing. This had put an idea in my head about the Blót, the nature of animal suffering, and gifting to the gods.

It is written in the Havamal, and many sagas, how gifts are paid with gifts, and when bestowed by the Gods and Goddesses, one should humble themselves to acknowledge their value, and in turn give what they have back. Running on the idea of animals dying, one asks for what cause, and which animals, can all of them be as useful to the gods, even if one did not die at the hands of a heathen? Could they be given Blót is discovered per se on the side of the road, or in the forest, or by the waters edge. There are so many animals dying at the hands of the human in our age, one only need read Re:wilding North America to read the facts and numbers of fauna mortality per year and from the dawn of the agrarian age. It is occurring more and more that I am finding unnatural deaths on my travels, and the recurring pattern is with smaller finds leading to more dramatic or whole finds. If I take a two hour walk, it is common for me to find feathers, then a bone or two, some fur, a dead reptile, and then once in a while a complete skeleton, like the rabbit carcass I found yesterday, a moose I dredged out of a swamp in the west, deer mangled on railway tracks, full crows, ravens, and possums. I have always felt the imperative need to offer something in order to receive it’s medicines, if I were to collect any.10534598_474928512610691_6652832069146592090_n

Alas, this is where I am getting. When I found the rabbit carcass, I asked for it’s gifts, and took the foot, one ear, the skull and tattered pelt for taufrverk, and offered the meat and bones for the turkey vultures for a sky burial which sat brooding in a tree watching me collect first. I did not know exactly which God/Goddess I was giving to, but knew there was a message of Ansuz, permeating through intention towards and within whoever or whatever steared my wyrd to find the rabbit in the first place. This led me to think that instead of truly ‘sacrificing’ this animal, I helped it move to the next incarnation instead of being ‘dead meat’ on the road, or something to clean up. I shared in the bounty of the animals gifts, and offered that which was more useful to the land wights, through the avians and minifauna who would later take every piece. In this way, it was Blót for the landvaettir, with runic galdor, and the sacred re-purposing of another life that may be incarnated again to a higher life. This was not the first time I have done something similar and not the only time I came to this idea. I have given crows and ravens burials in soil, so they may rest intact without having the staring eyes of non-empathic people, I have staked one to a strong tree with wings outspread, made of others in sacred taufrs during shamanic ritual and almost always offer or leave something in return; another bone, galdor poetry, runic wode, a feather, my hair or blood.

What I inquest is to whether others also perform these ‘roadkill Blóts’, and given their nature of being sporadic, what were their experiences with it? During a normal Blót for any heathen ceremony such as Yule, there is the element of troth and kinship, while the animal is most often eaten after hallowed by the Gods. The animal may be raised by a member of the community, and planned out long ahead of time. With an impromptu death find, it is solitary, instinctually magical, in the moment, and more raw. The animal is always in a more damaged state, and may take more courage to pick up a bleeding, broken fox, than does a clean ordinary chicken. But both are just as vital to the :G:ebo sentiment. If you are to find that an animal dies because of the wyrd of human beings, there is a reason you have found it, and will you pass on like everyone else and let it be just inanimate matter, or will you see the life, gifts, and medicine it still carries, and give it a proper sending. I have met with many a fetch this way, and understood myself to more animal, by the ancient primordial laws. Through sacrifice, soa, and sharing in the life-wyrd of other sentient creatures.