At Fire in the Mountains, I slept poorly and was constantly dirty and hot. It was always a gamble if you’d be able to wash your hands after using the porta potty. More than once, I wished that the crowd surfing would stop so I could look forward at the stage rather than backwards towards oncoming levitating bodies. Our tent was decimated by intense winds that left it only passably usable for the last three nights of the event.

I’m getting the negative stuff out of the way so that it doesn’t seem like the festival is paying me to write a glowing review.

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My experience at Fire in the Mountains (henceforth frequently abbreviated as FITM) was beyond simply enjoying an impeccably produced music festival. It was that, yes. The lineup was expertly curated, and across the board the bands were excellent. If that were all there was to say, I’d be perfectly happy with my experience. But there’s so much more to FITM, and these other elements are what made it such an impactful experience.

Right off the bat, the logistics of FITM limit the audience to a narrow, self-selecting group of people. For the past two years, the event has been held on Blackfeet tribal land in Montana, near Glacier National Park. Out of respect for the Native hosts, it is a completely dry fest, with no alcohol or drugs allowed. There are a small number of offsite accommodations nearby, most of the attendees camp, with a few levels of comfort available. And while there are plenty of other heavy music festivals around these days, FITM focuses on more obscure bands and subgenres than the bigger festivals. Limp Bizkit or Tool is likely never going to play FITM. This is a festival for people who listen to heavy music about communing with nature. With those conditions in mind, FITM is targeting a small audience and caps attendance at around 2,000 people. I count myself squarely in that audience.

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FITM is also closely affiliated with the Firekeeper Alliance, a non-profit organization focused on suicide prevention and mental wellness within the Blackfeet Nation. Led by a board of mental health clinicians, educators, musicians, cultural experts, and public health professionals, the Firekeeper Alliance is woven throughout the DNA of the festival, with members of the team introducing bands, hosting panels, and offering other channels for people to express themselves and cope with feelings of grief and loss. 

I cannot talk about my experience of Fire in the Mountains without talking about my grief.

The early months of 2026 were extraordinarily hard. Minneapolis, where I live, was besieged by federal immigration forces, putting the entire community into a state of heightened stress. This isn’t my story to tell so I won’t dwell on it too much, but I will say that situations in which your child’s school is patrolled by parents armed with whistles and cell phones to guard against masked paramilitary thugs with semiautomatics is existentially terrifying. As a side note here, I did run into several Minnesotans at the festival because they were proudly sporting tattoos or buttons of the Rebel Loon.

Death was on everyone’s mind in Minnesota during the winter and spring when ICE murdered Renee Good and Alex Pretti. It hit closer to home when it took first my dog of nearly 14 years, and then my best friend of over three decades.

Nathan Ferris Moore died unexpectedly of a heart attack on April 8, 2026. I wrote more about our relationship here, and I would be honored if you chose to read that essay or watch the eulogy I delivered at his celebration of life. But to put it briefly, losing Nate was like losing a brother, and there has not been a day that has passed since he died that I have not felt his loss.

Nate loved heavy music and he loved nature. He and I had been talking about attending FITM since its earlier incarnation in Wyoming. A week or so before his death, he texted me to say that he was talking to his life partner to see if they could make the trip happen this year.

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I had purchased my festival ticket the day that Neurosis, my favorite band of all time, was announced as the final headliner, but I nearly canceled my trip after Nate’s death. My wife and I went back and forth about it, and at one point she intended to come with. That plan fell through, but my friend Scott asked if he could tag along with me. With my wife’s loving support and Scott to help plan logistics, the trip stayed on the books. Along the way, it became clear as the festival drew closer that it had become intractably intertwined with my grieving process. In my mind, it was a place where I could honor him, feel my loss in a pure way, and hopefully return with my burden feeling a little lighter.

Part of the reason this made so much sense to me is that before the music started each day, the festival offered a variety of panels and workshops. Many of these focused on Native issues, while others dealt explicitly with mental health and grief. I was hoping that these panels would offer me some measure of comfort. I had no idea just how raw things would get, nor how much connection I would find with other attendees, or even the performers.

I cried every single day at Fire in the Mountains. I held a stranger’s hand as she wept for a friend she lost to suicide. A man I met a day earlier at the water station held me in one of the tightest hugs I’ve ever received after we shared stories of our dead friends. Two members of Neurosis hugged me after I told them how much it helped to have new music from them as I struggled with my loss, especially music about facing challenges and healing from them. I told Gina Gleason from Baroness about how much the band mattered to Nate and shared with her that their music was how he introduced his girlfriend to the heavier side of his musical world. Mike Scheidt of Yob was so gentle and generous with time in the multiple conversations I had with him that it was almost unbelievable. Gina and Mike are also great huggers, by the way. The undisputed Hug Champion of the festival is Aaron Turner, though. 

My friend Scott and I flew into Montana on Wednesday and arrived at the Red Eagle campground on Thursday morning. After a few quiet hours, setting up the camp, and enjoying the lake, activities began in the afternoon with a showcase of bands from the local high school. What these bands lacked in polish they certainly made up for with heart. The final band, John Doe, were the loudest and nastiest of the bunch. Each of the members also proudly proclaimed their love for their families and friends. It extraordinarily charming.

The high school band showcase was followed by the Grand Entry Procession and Powwow Celebration. Our Blackfeet hosts demonstrated traditional dances, sang many songs, and explained their traditions. At one point, they invited all the guests who felt so moved to come to the center and dance. Now, I am not a dancer by nature. Just ask my wife. But I asked myself when I would have an opportunity like this again. So, after a little hesitation, I danced. I didn’t dance with any particular style or skill, but I danced with joy. Later, when they invited guests to join hands with their neighbors and dance again, I didn’t hesitate.

The evening closed with a local band showcase. The highlight of this bunch was Ponoka, a two-piece Native doom band who held the audience rapt with pummeling drums, thunderous, droning guitar, throat-shredding vocals, and samples about the Native experience. It was incredible. I would later learn from drummer and event host Robert Hall that it was their first show.

By the close of Wednesday, I already knew that it was a special event, and the main programming hadn’t even started yet. That feeling only became stronger Thursday morning, when I woke up early for the Community Grief Support workshop. After that, I attended a panel on animism, indigenous thought, and a more ethical relationship with the natural world. Then it was onto a panel about music as medicine, after which I was able to speak about my grief with both Aaron Turner and Mike Scheidt.

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I had intended to attend other panels after the first three, but after walking along the shore of Lower Two Medicine Lake, I made a gametime decision and rented a paddleboard instead. I headed out onto the water, soaking in the beautiful scenery. After some time paddling, I steered towards a small island, hauled the board ashore, and sat on an old log for a few minutes of meditation. After returning the board, I shucked my shirt, dropped my shoes and backpack on the shore, and jumped into the lake for a swim. While hanging out in the water, I wound up talking to an older guy from Washington state who was there with his teenage daughter and her friend. Somehow, we got to talking about the assumptions people made about us as middle-aged white men and how we both endeavored to be better than the stereotypes. It was the first of many shockingly honest conversations I had at the festival. 

I would continue to have these conversations throughout the course of the festival, and sometimes, I would choose to continue talking to someone I just met rather than stick with my intended plans. On Saturday, I missed most of the panels I had selected in favor of conversation. There was the young guy from Butte in the lake who Scott started talking to because of his Rush tattoo. A couple of his camp mates came to join us, and it turns out that they were from Minnesota. I later met two guys who called out to me because of the “MPLS” tattoo on my calf. One was from Minnesota but now lives in the Bay area. The other lived in Texas but was planning on relocating to Minnesota in the next year. I thought these two were old friends because of how comfortable they seemed with each other. They had just met at the festival.

Before Yob’s set, I met a lovely married man and woman from Michigan who had played in bands there and had some connections to Scott’s favorite bands from his time growing up in Detroit. It came up in conversation that I had brought some (significant) emotional burden with me to the festival and that I had almost not come. She said to me, with sincerity that was almost shocking, “I am glad you are here.”

I continued to see all these people, and others, for the duration of the festival. Each time, we greeted each other with a smile, handshake, or fist bump. Thinking back on it now, I didn’t witness a single human interaction that wasn’t positive. No fights, no arguments, no sloppy drunks making asses of themselves. The only tears I witnessed were immediately followed by big hugs or the offer of a hand or a tissue.

On the other hand, I saw kids on their parents’ shoulders in the circle pit.

I saw a young girl waiting in line to show one of her favorite musicians a cricket she’d caught.

I saw the mosh pit excitedly welcome a man on a mobility scooter.

I saw another pit made up exclusively of event security staff.

I saw people share their food, water, and supplies.

Most of all, I saw love, joy, and acceptance.

The fact that I’ve written nearly 2,000 words before really addressing the music should illustrate the point that calling Fire in the Mountains a music festival feels reductive. I jokingly referred to it as my “spiritual retreat” in the days before leaving, and honestly that no longer feels like a joke. Between the workshops and the interactions with the people that I met there, my heart feels fuller than it has in a long time. I also heard some words from the panelists that I think will stick with me for a long time. Nate Newton of Old Man Gloom, Cave In, etc., was on a panel called Warriors and Outsiders, during which he said, “Being a warrior means being unwavering in your joy and love.” I told him how that really hit me, and I hoped to live those words going forward. He seemed genuinely touched.

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Okay, enough about your feelings, Zoss. Get to the music.

If I spend as much time writing about the music as I did everything else, we’ll be here all day. And we don’t have time for that. We’ve got joy and love to spread, dammit.

To give a general overview of the performances, every band ranged from “extremely good” to “mind-blowingly incredible.” I caught most bands, or at least parts of their sets. The only performer I missed entirely was Midwife, who I skipped to deal with our campsite being ravaged by intense wind. I have seen her multiple times before, so at least I didn’t have to miss a performance that was new to me.

I had seen several of the other bands before, including Wayfarer, Yob, and Baroness. All three are incredibly reliable live bands, and none disappointed. Wayfarer treated us to a song off their forthcoming new album. Yob is one of my favorite bands and they’ve been great every time I’ve seen them. Mike Scheidt later said on a panel that he thought his FITM set was a little shaky. Mike is wrong on this one, and I’m not just saying that because they closed with my favorite Yob Track, “Adrift in the Ocean.”

Baroness, as always, radiated joy and positivity. I realize that to someone who’s not a fan of the genre, that might seem like a strange thing to say about a metal band. I’d challenge them to watch Baroness live and tell me that they’re not having an absolute blast while they play.

The big draw, the main performer, the highlight of the lineup, is also a repeat band for me. This was my eighth time seeing Neurosis, who I have previously written about as my favorite band. After so many years away, I couldn’t miss their return. I am so glad I didn’t. Neurosis at FITM was powerful, pummeling, surprising, and beautiful. I have never seen a disappointing Neurosis set, but their FITM set was the band operating at a higher level. New member Aaron Turner fit in seamlessly while seeming to bring in new energy. I was expecting to hear the entire new album, plus an old track or two. Instead, it was closer to a 50/50 mix of new and old material, including some classics I never would have predicted. When the intro to “Lost” started, I loudly exclaimed “Oh shit!”

Neurosis is not a demonstrative band. They don’t speak to the audience, and there aren’t a lot of frills to their performances. They didn’t need any. There was no question why they were the big headliner of the festival, as they could so thoroughly captivate the crowd through their focused, intense delivery of their material. They’ve got a few other shows lined up right now, confirmed and highly rumored, and I’m sure they’ll be great at all of these. But to have been at this one is truly special. To see their first show back after several years away felt like being a part of something bigger, the start of a new era for the band.

Aside from Neurosis, the other bands most frequently mentioned by other attendees I spoke to about the sets they were most excited to see were Agalloch and the reunited SubRosa. While I don’t have the same history or connection with these bands as Neurosis, both were amazing and deepened my appreciation of both bands. I wrote the first half of this essay in the notebook I brought with while listening to SubRosa’s More Constant than the Gods, and I’ve listened to that album at least once a day since. It’s a good thing that I didn’t have a reliable way to bring vinyl home from the festival, or my wallet would be hurting much more than it is.

Speaking of deepening appreciation, my recent exploration of Enslaved’s catalog got me excited for their live performance, and their set turned me into a full-blown fan. While their entire set was stellar, the highlight was the live debut of their gorgeous new single “Spirit Helper” with guest vocalist Kevin Kicking Woman.

The other band that made a quantum leap in my personal fandom is Japan’s Sigh. They went from a band I was vaguely aware of, to one that I was interested to see, and finally a band that reached the pinnacle of music fandom: I now own a shirt. I was completely enraptured by their chaotic, unpredictable fusion of metal, funk, jazz, Japanese traditional music, and over-the-top theatrics. Sigh is now forever on my list of bands I’ll see anytime the opportunity presents itself.

The final performance I need to single out is the collaborative set by Iggor Cavalera and Raven Chacon. As there is no music online from this duo, I didn’t know what to expect. Native composer Raven Chaccon’s experimental recordings on Bandcamp offered only a partial clue. What we got (after a day’s delay due to Iggor’s plane catching fire!) was a set of spooky rhythmic noise that morphed into a celebration of primal percussion. Iggor and two guest drummers locked into a pulsing, repetitive tribal rhythm while Raven provided a wave of cascading dissonance. It washed over me and entranced me. I felt the rhythm deep within my body. It was the moment of the festival when I felt the most transported by the music, completely tuning everything else out and just fully connecting with the groove.

As an aside, the ability to tune things out is another big selling point for FITM. I was told to expect no cell service at the festival. While I was able to receive the occasional text, mostly my phone was on airplane mode, only coming out of my pocked for the occasional photo. Everything else went away. No social media. No news. No distractions. Just the music, the people, the beautiful surroundings, and the experience.

Fire in the Mountains wasn’t perfect. Nothing could be. Intense winds decimated many tents, including ours. We were able to keep it going as a wobbly shell of itself for the duration of the festival, but at the end it was no longer worth even keeping. It could be argued that the fest should ban crowd surfing so people could enjoy their most anticipated sets without worrying about being kicked in the back of the head. But we’re talking about fiddling around the margins. Fire in the Mountains 2026 was, without exaggeration, the single best musical experience of my life. Hell, it’s simply one of the best experiences of my life so far, period. I feel unburdened, at least in part. I feel renewed, changed. I feel connect to a community of people I would not have met otherwise.

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I got home from the festival Monday night and told my wife and son generally about the experience. She wanted to wait until later to hear more about it, so she could listen more fully when she was less tired and more alert. The next day, we took our son to the local pool and sat in the grass and talked about my experience. I told her all about the powerful emotions I experienced: the joy, the grief, the connection, the communion. From there, the conversation expanded to other topics: inspiration, community, hope, and our shared dreams for experiencing these things together. Later, she said to me, “I like this new relaxed, spiritual version of you.”

Fire in the Mountains was a catalyst. I am inspired and full of big ideas that grew out of my time in Montana. The first of which is taking this little site to the next level. I’ll be investing more in it and bringing it to the next level very soon. FITM was the kick in the pants that I needed.

During one of his panels, Mike Scheidt talked about his candle being lit, meaning that things were following for him as an act of musical performance or creation. To function as a band, he said, everyone’s candle needs to be lit. And when that band connects with the audience, the people watching have their candles lit.

My candle is lit. I think everyone at the festival feels the same way.

I am ready to go out and be a warrior, unwavering in my joy and love.

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Thank you to the Blackfeet Nation at the Fire in the Mountains and Firekeeper Alliance staff for this amazing experience.