(Below you will find NCS writer Gonzo’s extensive and beautifully evocative report and celebration of Fire In the Mountains 2026, which took place on July 23-26 on the sovereign lands of the Blackfeet Nation in northwestern Montana.)
Fire in the Mountains has never been the kind of festival you simply consume. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that it can be demanding—not in the hollow, transactional way so much of modern life has become, but in the more meaningful sense that it asks attendees to be present, considerate, and involved. The reward is a space built around something increasingly rare: community over convenience, inclusion over exclusivity, and shared experience over consumption.
This festival is, and always has been, a vast departure from the life we’ve been told we have to live. That’s why it remains as special as it is. The people hosting this gathering are cut from the same rebellious cloth, as they dare to take risks where it counts, doing things their way, but never losing sight of what they originally set out to accomplish years ago.
Like last year, all these thoughts were surging through my head at dawn as I hit the gas on I-25 from Denver. The same thoughts returned as I finished packing my Subaru to the brim with supplies. Our destination tonight was Great Falls, MT, and we’d complete the trek to Red Eagle Campground for Fire in the Mountains 2026 on Thursday morning.
All of this seemed so familiar, as though it had already happened in a parallel universe. Or maybe it was just the welcome sense of familiarity I felt, knowing that I’d be revisiting a very special and sacred land, reuniting with the incredible people I met last year, and watching even more astoundingly awesome music there over the next four days.
DAY 1: THURSDAY, JULY 23
My group of three arrived at Red Eagle around noon, but it wouldn’t be until 2 pm that we’d finally be setting up camp. There was a bit of a logjam of cars getting in, and for safety reasons, the crew couldn’t have cars hanging around on the bridge overlooking the river below.
The wind was already intense. I refer to Wyoming as “Ol’ Blowy,” mostly as a coping mechanism, but Red Eagle Campground was already vying to steal that moniker at our expense. Tents were already blowing sideways. Canopies were already turned inside out. Bandanas were going to be a must, given the already dry conditions that were exacerbated by Canadian wildfires to the north. The haze was noticeable, and the festival’s Discord server had been flooded with concerns about air quality.
Once we’d firmly double-staked our tents to the soft terrain, we trekked out to the main festival grounds for the opening powwow and grand entry. Last year at this time, I was filled with a bit of anxious trepidation about how a huge group of predominantly white metalheads would be received on sacred land like this. This year, it felt like returning to the coolest family reunion imaginable. Traditional dancers were out in force, complete with local MCs calling out the who’s-who of what we, the so-called travelers, were witnessing. It felt again like peering into another world. But this time, the relaxed feeling of inclusivity created an almost casual environment. Honestly, it was a beautiful scene. We were just as happy to see our indigenous hosts as they were to welcome us.
I managed to catch up with the dudes in Bozeman’s Galvanist somewhere around this time. We chatted for almost an hour about all things life, love, art, philosophy, music, and everything in between. That conversation will be published in another piece for another day, because it’s worth its own attention in a standalone story. Suffice to say, though, that the boys in this five-piece post-metal/doom project are all incredible human beings and musicians, and that energy would later be captured perfectly in their Sunday afternoon set on the Lone Walker stage.
Tonight, though, we were treated to a local music showcase courtesy of the Heavy Music Symposium at Browning High School. With the help of Firekeeper Alliance and Buffalo Hide Academy, the stage belonged to the kids this evening, and it was the only logical way to kick things off. Local bands Radiation Candle, Ponoka, and Senterline went on before the powwow and grand entry, and John Doe, Death Feather, and Mail Bomb rounded out the evening. I think it was Death Feather that featured local host Robert Hall, one of the most hilarious human beings I’ve ever met, in a full headdress, pounding away on the drums. It was a moment that could’ve only happened here.
DAY 2: FRIDAY, JULY 24
Most people who camp at Red Eagle all weekend know the only reasonable way to start each day is to submerge yourself in Two Medicine Lake. Temperatures were already high on this hazy Friday morning, and the thought of enduring the afternoon and evening without taking a dip was ridiculous.
And the lake isn’t far from where daily talk sessions were always held. Today, we listened to Steve von Till and Robert Hall give a morning talk about animism in Blackfeet culture. It was the first of a few lecture/discussion series I’d attend over the weekend, and the sessions are always thoughtfully planned and executed.
“We made 538 treaties with white settlers, and they broke 700 of them,” Hall said in his usual deadpan delivery. “And then, they broke our legs, and told us to run.”
I don’t think there’s a better summation of indigenous history in the US than that.
After toweling off and changing into dry clothes, the heat of the day jumped on us immediately. It was only getting more intense by the hour, so the refuge of the VIP tent was most welcome. I cracked open an electric lime non-alcoholic lager and re-upped on the sunblock. With unforgiving heat and gusty winds, the no-alcohol policy at the festival felt like a huge win. Booze was the last thing on my mind.
Before we knew it, Salt Lake City’s Yaotl Mictlan was stepping onto the Running Eagle stage (the larger of the two), ready to kick off the day 2 bill. They wasted no time blasting out a ferocious set, whipping up the enthusiastic crowd into a frenzied pit—heat be damned. The ensuing dust cloud found its way into my mouth, because of course it did, but I came prepared with my freshly purchased bandana. It turned out to be one of my favorite merch pickups of the weekend, and certainly the most useful.
Denver’s El Welk was already finishing their sound check when Mictlan wrapped up. Relatively unknown to most of us in attendance, the band is fronted by the Hi-Dive’s favorite cowboy, George Cessna. They play what I can only describe as dusty post-punk taking a long ride into a canyon with dark folk. I quickly became an instant fan.
By now, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen Wayfarer—festival appearances, local shows, one-off appearances in dimly lit saloons in the middle of nowhere—and I’d do it all again tomorrow if I could. Shane McCarthy is one of the nicest guys around, and I’ve also lost count of how many times I’ve pestered him for setlists or to just shoot the shit at the merch booth. Today, his band of cowboy-hat-wearing gentlemen was in top form, playing the usual rippers “The Cattle Thief,” “The Iron Horse,” and “False Constellation,” but we in attendance were also rewarded with the live debut of “Hollow Hearts on the Road to Eden,” a new track off their forthcoming album set for a November release.
As if that weren’t enough, they brought up the kids from the Heavy Music Symposium for the closing banger of “Animal Farm,” just after fooling everyone into thinking they’d fired drummer Isaac Faulk—who was fresh off a European tour with Blood Incantation. I legitimately have no idea when these dudes find time to sleep.
With my serotonin soaring to new levels, Baroness was up next. Their inclusion came as a bit of a surprise to me at first, and that’s for no particular reason. Their set leaned into some well-known tracks and some deep cuts, the latter of which included “Tower Falls” from their 2005 EP First.
Iggor Cavalera and Raven Chacon were supposed to appear today as well, but their appearance had to be pushed back to Saturday because, according to a scrawled note by the merch booth, “plane caught fire.” You never want to see that, let alone experience it, but we were assured everyone was okay and we’d see their performance tomorrow at 2 pm.
But then, we suddenly found ourselves with our own disasters to navigate.
Someone working the festival got on the main stage PA and announced the wind had blown over a shitload of tents in the camping areas. This was also a problem last year as well as 2022, when the festival was still at Heart Six Ranch in Wyoming, proving that the American West hates you and wants to blow your ass back to Oz. Fearing the worst, we scampered back up the hill and got to our campsite posthaste.
The damage was a sight to behold. Our tent had blown sideways, and the wind was so strong that it snapped one of our support poles in half. Our neighbors didn’t escape unscathed, either. Cleaning things up and resetting camp in the unforgiving heat was one thing, but the fact that it forced us to miss Agalloch playing Ashes Against the Grain in its entirety was a hard pill to swallow.
Oddly, this may have been serendipitous. Amigo the Devil was just starting up when we got back to the festival grounds, and nothing lifts your spirits like a raucous set from Danny Kiranos and friends. It’s a wonder that he seemed to be in such high spirits himself—the poor man’s house burned down a year ago, and he lost everything.
“It’s weird, then, when we realized about 80 percent of our songs talk about house fires,” he said to the audience with a smirk. It seemed on-brand for a festival that openly welcomes its patrons to be vulnerable and process grief. Amigo’s set, by that standard, was cathartic for everyone, including Danny himself. The addition of the Home Depot theme song jam was just as hilarious as it was awesome. By the end, the set was a good reminder that despite how much we idolize and romanticize their work, the artists performing all weekend are people, too.
I barely had enough time to finish my frybread to get a good vantage point for 16 Horsepower’s fabled return. They might not be a household name by any stretch, but their influence is evident in much of the music hitting the stage at Blackfeet Nation this weekend. The Denver alt-country legends waltzed onto the stage unceremoniously, like a high-plains drifter nonchalantly walking into an Old West saloon on a scorching afternoon. David Eugene Edwards, in all his enigmatic persona, was as captivating as ever—especially when the accordion came out for “American Wheeze.”
Being relatively unfamiliar with their music until the festival announced their appearance some months ago, I was blown away. It’s like they’d never been gone at all. They breezed through an extensive set of 18 tracks with all the confidence of a band that knows exactly how awesome they are. “Black Soul Choir” and “Brimstone Rock” were especially incredible.
“Jesus,” I said to my friend as they belted out the latter track, “this song is so cool, I’d let it fuck my wife while I watch.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s…something.”
photo by Bobby Cochran Photography
DAY 3: SATURDAY, JULY 25
Mercifully, the morning spared us the wind that made yesterday the chaotic mess it devolved into. The tent was still completely fucked anyway, which made my wife and me glad that we’d long since planned on sleeping in the back of my Subaru.
Our camp neighbor, Chuck, was in rough shape this morning. He emerged from his tent, grumbling under his breath about something, and sat down next to us.
“How’d you sleep?” I asked.
“Fucking horrible,” he said. “Did you hear the absolute symphony of farts at 5 in the morning?”
This, I thought, was another advantage of bringing the sleeping pads and using the car as a bed.
At the communal breakfast space, the heat was already getting more intense than yesterday. The fact that it was only 9 am was a little alarming, so we of course opted for another dip in Two Medicine Lake. It’s never a bad decision.
The lake offered a great place to watch tribal leaders demonstrate how to put up a sweat lodge. Apparently, engineering students from Ivy League schools couldn’t get this right, so it was fascinating to watch the magic unfold.
A beautiful sight came next in a headdress transfer ceremony. This traditional exchange is a very special occasion, and the tribe asked everyone not to record any of it. The respect everyone showed was a testament to the spirit of this festival. We stayed until the heat got the better of us, whereupon we filled up on bison meat at the community barbecue.
After eating, I sauntered over to the media tent to catch up on note-taking. It was a valiant effort on my part, but chatting it up with FITM staff and photographers won me over. John from Knotfest was discovering how futile it was to upload any photos from this spot, while my old pal Shannon Void was being pulled in twelve directions at once, as usual.
Savage Oath was starting their set, and I couldn’t make it down there in time. Albuquerque’s occult black metal outfit Nocturne began their set with a prayer for rain, which everyone could get behind. Those of us who were here last year when the rain started, though, were more hesitant. The rain caused a veritable flood in a matter of minutes last year after Inter Arma’s legendary set, forcing us to huddle underneath a shade tent that could’ve easily collapsed under the accumulating water.
I decided to move up closer to the stage for Germany’s Ruins of Beverast. Just like their discography, their set is thick with riffs and atmosphere alike; it’s enough to whip up a lively pit in spite of the oppressive heat. Meanwhile, I stood in the shade at stage left, doing my best to hide behind the banner that’s filtering the sunshine that would’ve been aimed straight at my head like a precision space laser. I’m still saving my mosh energy for later.
Tarantella pops up next on the Lone Walker stage. They don’t play live very often, according to a video I watched earlier in the week, but their folky sound evokes enough of my attention to hang out for a bit. My stomach, however, was screaming at me in its own gurgly language, so it was time for another frybread run.
I just need to take a moment and give credit to every single food vendor that was present this year. Not only were they the kindest, most welcoming people imaginable, but their food simply kicked ass across the board. The highlight I couldn’t get enough of was the homemade frybread with huckleberry jam, and the double frybread cheeseburger that may have changed my life before I even finished devouring it. Guess I’m a frybread guy for life now.
With a full stomach, I waddled back down the hill to see the mighty YOB hit the stage. As usual, you could probably hear Mike Scheidt’s opening chords from the opposite side of Glacier National Park some 20 miles away. The thunderous opening notes of “Quantum Mystic” seemed to conspire with the land itself, booming and roaring in waves that I swear were almost perceptible to the human eye. YOB has always been a force of nature, less like three individual men and more like one conscious entity.
And this time, Scheidt didn’t break a string during the end of “Adrift in the Ocean.” (If you know, you know.)
We found a somewhat shady spot on the hill between the lake and the stages, so we stayed there for a bit to cool down. The wind had picked back up again, and we feared the worst for what was left of our tent (which was now more akin to a fucking lean-to). Fortunately, the gusts died down, but our chosen spot didn’t have the greatest view of Gallowbraid. They sounded great in spite of our less-than-ideal vantage point, but I was still saving my energy to unleash it all for Enslaved.
That turned out to be the best decision of the day.
The Norwegians headlined a night on Heart Six Ranch back in 2022, and I still tell people that was one of the most iconic hours of music I’ve ever had the good fortune to witness. But today would take it even further.
Local tribe member Kevin Kicking Woman, who recorded traditional Blackfeet vocals with Enslaved on their astonishing new single “Spirit Helper,” came out to debut the song on stage for the first time. Followed by a beautiful invocation by Steve von Till, Kevin’s singing echoed throughout the valley, bringing grown men to their knees in that pit. I stood completely still at first, mesmerized by the indescribable beauty of what I was witnessing.
Then, I turned around.
Local tribal kids were doing things in that pit that I’d never even imagined. Blessing the ground, calling out in the native tongue, and dancing in traditional rhythmic fashion, all while a circle of onlookers paused to consider whether to jump in and join or just stand back and give this moment entirely to them. It was so beyond beautiful that I couldn’t hold back a tear. I’m listening to “Spirit Helper” as I’m typing this, and the emotions and memories are all roaring back. What an incredible festival we’re attending, I thought. What an incredible thing to be a part of.
The rest of Enslaved’s set was rife with the liveliest circle pit of the weekend so far, with the band chugging out “Havenless,” “Forest Dweller,” and “Isa” to name a few highlights. The latter song turned the pit into a giant dust storm that was on par with the fiercest weather we encountered all weekend. I returned to our hillside spot covered in dust, sweat, and exhilarated beyond words.
The real accomplishment of the night—at least for me—was summoning more energy to watch Full of Hell fucking decimate whatever was in front of them, and then the return of Neurosis to end the night. Dylan Walker & co. came out all guns blazing, playing songs that had the precision of tech-death with the feral ferocity of grind. If you’re bored at a Full of Hell show, I don’t know what to tell you.
“This song’s about being trapped inside a 25-year-old Macintosh computer for the rest of your life,” Walker quipped at one point. “Think about it!”
Somehow, this is as extreme as metal gets, and I’m here for it.
With all eyes now set on Neurosis about to take over the main stage, there was a buzz in the air. Dusk had finally settled into the darkness of night. The mosquitoes were out in force, and those who didn’t properly inoculate with bug spray were fervently swatting away those persistent bastards.
Then, suddenly, a lone Steve von Till seemed to phase-shift onto the stage from the ether, delivering the opening vocals of “We Are Torn Wide Open” in a commanding display. The band, sporting one Aaron Turner living his childhood dream right before our eyes, ripped into “Mirror Deep” and “First Red Rays” like they’d been doing this together every day for the past decade. Sonically, it was all very clean yet incredibly dense, like being hit so hard by a 2×4 that you see God himself.
The setlist, which nobody could’ve predicted, thankfully stretched throughout the band’s storied career, with “Lost” and “Times of Grace” sounding as revitalized as ever. Turner’s bellowing vocal style is such an amazing fit for this band, and hearing his contributions on earlier work was a fantastic end to an otherwise unbelievable day of music. It seems like Neurosis is back, better than ever, and ready for a new chapter that nobody saw coming.
photo by Gonzo
DAY 4: SUNDAY, JULY 26
On our way down to the lake, there was a rumor circulating camp that last night, someone’s portable toilet had been swept up by the wind and exploded like a water balloon from hell on someone else’s tent. If true, just remember this the next time you’re having a bad day.
After that horrifying image had enough time to set in, we began our final stroll to Two Medicine Lake. The notorious inflatable avocados were in tow, making their second appearance at Fire in the Mountains, but the lake was in no mood for leisurely lounging. The wind was doing its thing yet again, this time creating white-capped waves. We gleefully jumped in to enjoy the ride. The whole experience was akin to being in a wave pool at a water park, and it honestly was great to feel cold again.
When we toweled off, the sun came back out and changed the weather in a matter of minutes. At the shore, the trio of Mike Paparo from Inter Arma, Dylan Walker of Full of Hell, and Jacqui Powell of Witching served as panelists in a session on extreme metal vocals, hosted by Firekeeper Alliance’s Charlie Speicher. The trio wasn’t afraid to get personal about the subject matter, from admitting they still get nervous every time they’re on stage to sometimes not even knowing what their own lyrics are, and it made for my favorite session of the weekend.
With plenty of time left before Phobophilic would start the day, food became a priority. I can never eat enough at this festival, and that’s always due to the obvious combination of strenuous walking, exposure to the elements, and whatever other crazy shit befalls me on the average day here.
My only complaint today was that the barbecue felt like eating reheated leftovers. I wasn’t sure if that was actually the case, but the quality diminished noticeably today. It felt strange. We opted for another helping of frybread from one of the nearby trucks, carb crashes be damned.
Our general pace was slower today. This first dawned on me after we took our time eating, only to realize we missed Phobophilic entirely. But my new friends in Galvanist were about to start on the Lone Walker stage, and I made my way to the front as they ripped into “Hauntology” from their fantastic new record The Silence Between Stars.
As the song got going, heads were turning to look… behind us? I turned, not knowing what to expect. To everyone’s amusement, it was a group of festival security getting the pit started, hyping everyone up as Galvanist tore into a vicious blast beat. This was no doubt because bassist Kevin George was also working security for the fest, and his pals were now firing everyone up while making sure we were all hydrated and taken care of.
I’m not exaggerating when I say the people who make this festival happen are some of my favorite human beings on earth.
Vocalist Tanner Erhart’s laser-focused stage presence was perfect. He belted out the spoken-word intro to “Dreich” that sent chills down my spine, which was a feat worth noting since the sweat was literally running down my back. As Galvanist were finishing their set, I turned around to see a much more massive crowd than when they first began. Their performance was electrifying.
My group opted to take in Sumerlands from the shade of the VIP tent, grabbing a 0% beer for happy hour and hiding from the sun. But I also felt a need to connect to the land a little more before the day was over, and that decision led my wife and me to plant our butts in the forested area between the Running Eagle stage and the lake.
This is one of my favorite parts of the festival grounds. Last year, it was where many of us in attendance plopped down to let Steve von Till’s solo set wash over us, and I still think about that performance pretty often. We opted to do the same for Dreadnought this time.
“Gears of Violent Endurance” felt like a heavy prog soundbath as it echoed through the trees above us. I lay back and closed my eyes. It was only then that I realized I was pretty overstimulated, and the canopy created by the trees was a welcome break.
The wildfire smoke was dissipating a little bit, and I decided to take another walk down to the lake for a few pictures before it got dark. When I sat on the shore, I saw a lone dude on the other side of the lake, relishing his solitude. He jumped in the water suddenly, as though he’d just realized he was isolated, and swam across. When he walked out of the water and onto the shore, not only did I realize he resembled Nergal, but he had also completed his swim in what appeared to be sweatpants. He casually put his hands in his pockets and disappeared into the trees.
“I wonder what the rest of that guy’s day is like,” I said out loud to nobody in particular.
Back at the Running Eagle stage, this year’s festival felt like the breeding grounds for celebrating reunions and anniversaries. Whatever it was, Utah’s Subrosa decided it was time to bury the hatchet and hit the stage once again. They were welcomed back with roaring applause before they even ripped into epic opener “The Usher.” And judging by the line at their merch booth before their set even started, the reunion was a great decision. Dreadnought’s Kelly Schilling even lent them her flute skills for “Despair is a Siren.”
From here on out, the rest of the night was going to be balls-to-the-wall for this intrepid writer. It was a good thing I’d saved my energy, because I’d need every ounce of it. And who knew how much sleep I’d actually get tonight before embarking on a grueling 15-hour drive back to Denver tomorrow.
It’s been over a decade since I last saw Old Man Gloom fucking destroy a venue. I had a joyous freakout when I saw they’d been added to the lineup months ago, and with moments left before they’d hit the stage, I tied my bandana around my face like I was going into a warzone as I made my way to the front.
Aaron Turner, fresh from the set of his life with Neurosis last night, effortlessly took the stage alongside his longtime compatriots Stephen Brodsky, Nate Newton, and Santos Montano. Leading with “Procession of the Wounded,” they were almost teasing the crowd with chaotic yet not-quite-full-blast juggernaut riffs. “Simia Dei” continued this, with a staccato that sent the pit into an almost unified circular march. “Heel to Toe,” “Branch Breaker,” and “Sleeping with Snakes” carried the sheer heaviness of doom with the raw chaos of hardcore, and by the time it all ended on an earth-shaking note with “To Carry the Flame,” I raged through that pit like I’d been activated by a 2000s-era hardcore kid sleeper cell. Mother of living fuck, I thought. I love this band.
I didn’t even need to ask how I was possibly going to enjoy anything else after this. Borknagar was about to answer that question for me.
photo by Gonzo
They were among the few bands this weekend that I’d never seen before, nor did I ever think I’d get a chance to. Their US appearances are infrequent at best. From the opening grandeur of “Nordic Anthem” to their closing selection of “Winter Thrice,” ICS Vortex and friends were nothing short of pure magic. The circle pit became a free-for-all whirlpool that instantly evaporated any fear or worry from the outside world once you set foot in it. “Up North” did something spiritual to me that I’m still trying to iron out, while “Fire” seemed to physically scare the wildfire smoke away.
And after all of this, we still had the privilege of seeing two more bands that haven’t seen North American soil for a while.
Japan’s legendary Sigh was about to do things on that stage nobody was mentally prepared for.
The band came out with a focused ferocity that instantly drew the entire festival to the Lone Walker stage, one last time. The next hour would be one that nobody in that crowd would forget anytime soon.
Sick riffs? Yep.
Awesome songs? Check.
Surprise sax solo? Hell yes.
Amazing costumes? Yessir.
Flaming swords? Oh shit, bring it.
Two small children on stage, pretending to play instruments but instead looking visibly bored? Okay, didn’t expect that, but it somehow works.
Sigh is fully content to live in their own universe, play black metal the way they want to play it, and break every purist rule while doing it. They’ve been doing this since 1990, and that fact alone is enough to blow my own unworthy mind.
To describe this set any further would be something of a futile effort. Sigh’s performance has to be experienced to be fully understood. Let’s just say it surpassed every expectation I had for any moment of the weekend.
As hard as it was to believe, we were staring down the very end of it all. The final set, featuring Abbath, Ice Dale, and Armeggeda in the reunited I performing Between Two Worlds, was just minutes away. And as much as I enjoyed the set itself, my brain was admittedly elsewhere for most of it.
My thoughts began wandering. Being in “go” mode for so many consecutive days doesn’t often leave much room for reflection, but that was starting to catch up to me now. Cliche as it may be to say at this point, Fire in the Mountains really is more than just four days of bands playing music in a remote setting. I wrote last year that the fest’s new location on Blackfeet land, heightened sense of community, and collaborative efforts with Firekeeper Alliance signaled the dawn of a new kind of heavy ceremony. That’s still true. But the continuation of that effort was in the spotlight in 2026, and all eyes would be on how the organizers carried their tireless efforts into the next iteration of the festival.
In short, it hasn’t lost a step. Everything ran as smoothly as it could’ve, excluding a few issues beyond anyone’s control: wind, wildfire smoke, long merch lines. But the true measure of a festival is what kind of people it attracts, and for artists and attendees alike, this place offers comfort, solace, and peace.
By Sunday, I couldn’t walk anywhere without seeing someone I’d either already known or just met. All of them were friendly faces. I felt a genuine connection with every single one of them. For artists, it offered a sense of true creative freedom, vulnerability, and the open space to just be themselves. So many sets embodied that this weekend while still respecting the land to an almost steward-like extent. For attendees, it only heightened the experience with the constant reminder that their favorite bands are just human beings writing great music. The sense of equity could power entire movements if given the chance. Maybe it already has.
All of these thoughts were tumbling around my head as Abbath shout-mumbled something incoherent in between each song. Too tired to give a fuck about what he was actually saying, everyone responded with enthusiasm anyway.
“It’s not German, it’s not Norwegian, it’s not English,” someone near me around the bonfire said. “It’s just…Abbathian?”
Sure, we’ll go with that.
On the walk back to camp, it was hard not to look up. The stars were finally out more clearly than ever. The land seemed almost consciously aware of our imminent departure at dawn, and this was its final gift to us: a clear night, unobstructed by the smoke and heat we’d endured. It had to be this way, I thought. The poetic ease with which this land responds to everything perfectly reflects the mindset of its people. Even in the face of existential threats like climate change, tyrannical government, and a generational history of trauma, I could almost feel the mountains shrug and say “we’ve seen worse.”
Make no mistake: the new heavy ceremony that Fire in the Mountains created last year is now thriving in Blackfeet Nation. It transcends metal. It transcends music. It demands that everyone in attendance pay attention. In fact, it insists on it.
But as the smoke clears, what remains is not simply the memory of another festival weekend, or even another extraordinary run of music beneath an ancient sky. It’s the feeling of having been asked to participate in something larger than yourself—and to leave with a little more care for the people, land, and history that made it possible.
Fire in the Mountains does not offer escape from the world so much as a clearer way of seeing it. The ceremony is heavy because the circumstances are heavy. But there is also joy there, and generosity, and the stubbornly life-affirming act of gathering together anyway. As camp emptied and the stars kept watch over the valley, that felt like the lesson: pay attention, show up for one another, and do not mistake endurance for resignation.