History thick in the air. Samurai ghosts, ink-stained hands, the hum of old craftsmanship. I stand here, wrapped in ten years of Black Bear Brand—stitched into time, stitched into me.
The Varsity Jacket. Every patch, a moment. Hand-drawn. Chain-stitched. Madness. Over twenty hours of needle and thread. The Black Bear Brand USA & Japan ship—four hours alone. Precision. Obsession.
Steerhide sleeves, white as a storm’s underbelly. Navy melton wool, deep as twilight. A varsity jacket, evolved. Built different. Made for the few. The ones who know.
A month away from release. By then, I’ll be gone. Somewhere between here and nowhere. But today—Tokyo. Art. Craft. History. A decade of creation on my back.
A road to everywhere.

- josh

The road, cracked, sunburnt, a thread through the wild west.  
Wind thick with dust and sage. Freedom—the burn of the sun, the bite of the wind, the silence that means something.
Japan drifts through my mind—Okayama, where denim is more than fabric, where looms hum like prayers, where indigo stains like time, obsessed, relentless. No shortcuts. No compromise.
Built for this road, for men who ride, who chase the horizon with no need for a destination.
The memory fades. The West is here, now...

- josh

The road is a promise, whispered in salt and wind. It calls to the wild, the restless, the ones who know that peace is a fleeting thing, found only in motion. tremembers. Every mile. Every moment. Every choice.

Rain like knives. The storm hitting sideways, wind howling, screaming, trying to rip me loose. The Pacific below, black and furious, waves tearing at the cliffs. The road ahead—a slick, winding thing, twisting through the chaos. I don’t think. I just go. Fast. Faster.

The rain eases.  The storm lost interest. The sky, torn open, bleeds blue and gold over the highway, over the cliffs, over the Pacific rolling endless and black.

I stand there, my heart hammering in my ears. The ‘37 Flathead sits off to the side, steaming, tilted just enough to say it won’t be riding out of here. The frame—twisted. Something’s bent, something’s broken. I don’t check. I don’t need to. It’s out of commission. For now.

The ‘48 Panhead. Oily. Loud. Built for this. The seat feels different. The bars sit higher. The weight shifts under me like a second chance. I kick. Once. Twice. Fire. The beast wakes up angry. The sound echoes off the wet pavement, off the empty highway, off the last remnants of the storm.

The Northern Dream Jacket—shearling lined, soaked through, but unyielding—holds the memory of the ride, the crash, the road. The Black Bear Brand jeans, worn but untouched, carry the proof. No rips. No tears. No questions.
The storm is done. The sun is rising. The road is waiting.

Rain. A war drum on the Pacific Coast Highway. The storm eats the sun, leaving the sky bruised, bleeding wild colors across the ocean. Waves smash the cliffs, spray whipping like shattered glass. To my left, the canyon. To my right, the abyss.

Denim soaked. The Northern Dream Jacket heavy, alive, clinging to me like a second skin. The road twists, black and slick, a serpent winding through chaos. Wind tears at me, trying to peel me off the bike, but I lean in, push harder. The rain stings. Feels good.

Four states, a thousand miles, a blur of mountains and desert and neon reflections in motel windows. This road is the last stretch, the final test. The line between sane and insane, between the dream and the drop.

Lightning cracks. The world lights up electric. The ocean screams back. I am nothing out here. Just a man, a machine, and a storm that doesn’t give a damn.

The jacket, the denim—soaked, weathered, marked by the miles. Not just clothes. More than that. Proof. That I was here. That I rode through the storm and came out the other side.

Mother Nature throws it all at me. I don’t flinch. I grin. We dance.

A fever dream of leather and shearling. Golden curls, rawhide scars. Wild. Untamed. A contradiction. Perfect.

Snow. Endless. Mountains like gods. Nights that swallow you whole. I’ve been everywhere. Japan, Montana, Utah. No straight lines. Just chaos.

Now fire. Silence, loud and heavy. The jacket’s there, half-formed. Sheepskin alive, fighting the dream. Leather screaming its story. My mind—wired, feral. The jacket—it’s happening. No plan. Just madness.

Montana cold. -2. The Panhead sits. I kick. Over and over. Lost. Drifting. The jacket’s in my head. The roads, the scars, the chaos. Time collapses.

The bike howls to life. She’s there, eyes like fire. No words. She climbs on. Legs lock. Heat against leather. And we’re gone.

Through ice and stars. The jacket—creases, scars, a life on fire. A dream that won’t quit.

- josh

There’s something sacred in a stitch. Each one tells a story—whispered prayers, curses muttered under breath, the quiet hum of a needle threading its way through time. The boro jeans had lived more lives than I ever would. They weren’t just mended; they were resurrected, patched and layered like a battlefield scarred and beautiful.

Stitches hold

Boro fabric speaks louder than I do
Patch on patch—layer over layer.

Everything breaks,
but some things
are worth mending.

The cold whispers, in the grip of the storm, I find myself.
Not comfort, not in ease, but in the howl of the wind, the frost-bitten trees.
Unyielding and vast, where time fades away, the future and past.
Mother Nature calls, her voice coaxing, a dare to keep moving, to make the unknown home.

The rain started like a whisper, a sly murmur threading through the evergreens, but it didn’t stay that way. The sky cracked open, we were already deep in it—no turning back. The Pacific Northwest doesn’t offer warnings; it drags you under, spits you out, and leaves you gasping for meaning.

This is a land of extremes, where the mountains stretch higher, the forests grow darker, and the storms hit harder. A place where the line between man and wild blurs, and only the reckless thrive. It’s not for everyone, but for the ones it calls? There’s no escaping it.

I’ve ridden through a hundred landscapes, but nothing compares to this. The cold wraps around you like a vice, the rain a relentless hammer against the steel of your will. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you find clarity. Not peace. Not calm. Just raw, unfiltered truth.

This isn’t a ride; it’s a rite of passage. The Flathead roars beneath me, and the Black Bear Brand coat clings to my back like a battle flag, soaked but unbroken. Each drop of rain, each mile, each roar of the engine—it’s a prelude to something bigger. Something untamed. Something wild.
And now, the storm has arrived.
- josh

Black Bear Brand garment dyed slub cotton pocket tee

Vintage rose bleeds,
Army dreams in dirt and green—
Slub whispers: Feel me.

Navy sinks, Old Money gleams,
Charcoal smokes in twilight schemes.

Threads twist like trips,
Raindrop pocket—a portal.
Seattle hums.

HAVE A NICE DAY Podcast... a Montana moment!

In a quiet corner of Montana, where the mountains stand as witnesses and the land carries the weight of untold stories, a conversation unfolds that bridges two worlds. Jefferson White, celebrated actor from the hit series Yellowstone, and Josh Sirlin, the visionary behind Black Bear Brand, come together at a simple table in the town where fiction meets reality. This isn’t just a chat—it’s a meeting of kindred spirits. Jefferson, who brings the rugged, conflicted characters of the Dutton Ranch to life, and Josh, whose designs embody the wild, untamed spirit of the West, find common ground in their dedication to craft, authenticity, and the stories that shape us.

The air—cold, sharp... cutting through the silence. Mist clings to the peaks—stillness, heavy... chill of fall hanging in the air.
The goose down vest, built for this—this unforgiving land, this kind of life. A symbol of the wild, stitched with purpose. No compromises.
- Josh

The West is not just a place, it’s something carved deeper, etched into the bones of anyone who’s drifted under its open skies. Out here, the land doesn’t soften for you; it’s bare-knuckled, raw, a thousand miles of wild beauty and silence that can leave a man small, and yet, somehow, whole.

Its been pulling at me my whole life—the wind-battered peaks, the long roads cutting through the plains, the kind of solitude that feels like a mirror. It’s where you come to face whatever’s left inside you, stripped down to the essentials.

The road calls me, a relentless whisper that nothing else drowns out. It's the journey I know, the rhythm of tire to road, the chill in the air as winter rolls in and the sky takes on that washed-out, hard edge.

Black Bear Brand , jeans broken in by the miles, gripping the bars of that old '48 Panhead, an iron ghost on a road less traveled. This is the beginning.... every time, something wordless. Just the land, the open sky, and a promise written on the wind. - Josh

Winter’s around the corner, its PNW wet, Black Bear Brand, head to toe. Leather jacket zipped tight against the cold, jeans soaked, denim heavy with rain. Black Bear Brand built for the bite, for days like this, when Mother Nature is testing ya.

My ’37 Harley, engine cutting through the silence, tires chewing snow & gravel. Snow’s comin, the ride, the mountains—unyielding, indifferent— here I come...
- josh

Josh Sirlin rides through the rainy Pacific Northwest on his vintage 1937 Harley, wearing a Black Bear Brand leather jacket and soaked Black Bear Brand jeans. Snow dusts the ground and clings to the trees as he navigates the winding logging roads, embodying rugged style and adventure in the unyielding wilderness.
#BlackBearBrand #JoshSirlin #VintageHarley #PNWAdventure #WinterIsComing #LeatherJacket #MotorcycleLife #Craftsmanship #RuggedStyle #AdventureAwaits #NatureLovers

Step into the world of Black Bear Brand with Josh Sirlin—

Step into the world of Black Bear Brand with Josh Sirlin—the mastermind behind the rugged, handcrafted designs. Watch as he rides through the scenic beauty of Oita, Japan, laughing with friends, kicking up dust on his vintage Harley, and showing the personal, playful side of life on the road. This is more than fashion—it’s about adventure, craftsmanship, and real connections. From the studio to the open highway, Black Bear Brand is a way of life. Join Josh and experience what drives him, who he is, and why every piece tells a story.

Its dawn, I have a purple Shovelhead, buddy Tekashi is grinning like a man who knew more than he’d ever say...  tearing through the city like a couple of acid-fueled road warriors from a time no one remembered, but everyone still felt. Everything buzzed with it—the engines, the colors, the laughter in the air. The kind of day where reality bends just enough to let you slip into another world. Freedom, a touch of reckless and wild, a day that demanded you throw your middle finger up and grin at the absurdity of it all. Yeah, BE HAPPY—it was the only thing that made sense.

Traffic screamed past us, headlights streaking in the twilight, but we were in our own little world on the shoulder of chaos.
We knelt by the bike, tools scattered, fingers greasy, hearts racing. The city hummed around us, a beast breathing down our necks, but we worked like mad scientists trying to bring Frankenstein back to life. Sparks flew, the engine coughed, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
Then, a roar. The Shovelhead came back to life, shaking off death like it was nothing. Tekashi slapped me on the back, grin wide as ever. We kicked it into gear and blasted back into the city, the ride even sweeter because we’d stolen it from the edge.
Yeah, BE HAPPY—because sometimes, you gotta bring the dead back to life just to keep the trip going.

We left the city behind, chasing the sunrise through the countryside, and found ourselves in front of an old soba shop tucked in the hills. The soba man—wild, grinning like he was in on some cosmic joke—welcomed us in like long-lost friends. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a ritual. The kind of experience that pulls you back in time, makes you question where you are and what decade you’re living in.
He served us with a huge smile, his world becoming ours for a while, and in that moment, everything felt like it was part of some strange, beautiful trip. No rush, no worries, just the taste of freedom, and the road still waiting.
Yeah, BE HAPPY—because sometimes, the world invites you to lose yourself in its wildest corners.

There’s a place, far from the rush of cities, where the wind never stops and the earth feels ancient. It was here that the cloth was made, woven by hand on looms that have stood the test of generations. It wasn’t just any wool, but Harris Tweed—the kind that holds the spirit of the land itself. Psychedelic blue, with flashes of pink, red, purple, yellow, and navy. It felt alive, a pattern pulled from the archives of memory, too wild to be tamed, too rare to be forgotten.
I brought it back to Seattle, that cloth. Wrapped in the quiet reverence it deserved, it traveled with me, across oceans, mountains, and miles of road. In my hands, it was still raw, waiting. But in the studio, it would become something more.
The jacket was born slowly, crafted by hands that understood patience. The design pulled from the past but shaped by the present—a Western cut, rugged and sharp. Leather-reinforced snaps, each one sewn with intention. Inside, the Japanese diamond quilting added a layer of warmth, a touch of elegance against the strength of the outer wool. It wasn’t just a jacket—it was the kind of piece you wore into the wild, into the unknown.
I took it on the first ride, through the sweeping curves of Glacier National Park. The road stretched out before me, the mountains rising like giants on all sides. The jacket held firm, a shield against the wind. It felt as if it had always been there, stitched into the story of the land.
Now, that story continues.