By a man running from nothing, chasing everything

I didn’t plan it. Hell, I never do. The sun cracked sideways over the ridgeline and the world hissed alive. A cold morning wind bit my face like a jealous ex, and I smiled—because the road was calling again. Loud this time. Like a shotgun in church. Like an old god dragging a chain.

The Panhead sat there, twitching, like it knew. Like it wanted out as bad as I did. I strapped my saddle horsehide on like armor—raw, cracked, beautiful. Made by hand. American hands. You could feel it. Heavy like a story.

This wasn’t a jacket. It was a f***ing declaration.

No logos. No bullshit. Just hide, thread, and truth. The kind of truth you only find when you’re too far out to turn around.

I kicked the chopper to life—one hard stomp, and the beast roared back from the dead. It had that sound... low and mean, like it might break apart or burn the world down trying.

I didn’t pack much. A notebook. A knife. A flask full of jet-black coffee that tasted like motor oil and betrayal. Left the phone face-down in the dirt. Let it die out there.

Route? Unknown. Direction? West. Always west.

Past the diners where time stops. Past gas pumps leaning like drunk cowboys. Past the ghosts of men who thought they could tame this place and found out too late—they were the ones getting tamed.

Somewhere between the roar of the engine and the silence of the high desert, I felt it.

The dream. The wonder. The savage little truth that lives just past the edge of civilization—where the map ends and the myth begins.

I stopped once. Just once. A town with no name and no future. Ate eggs with a woman named Glory who said she used to ride bulls and now just rides men. I didn’t ask questions. She wore a .38 tucked into her boot and had a tattoo of a grizzly across her chest. I left her with a kiss and a laugh. Left her with the sound of that Harley barking back into legend.

Somewhere near Monument Valley, I pulled over and screamed at the sky. Not out of anger. Out of joy. Out of the brutal, feral realization that I was alive and unchained. Covered in dust, sweat, and dreams.

This life isn’t for everyone. Most people want safety. Comfort. A pension and a porch swing.

Me? I want the storm. The story. The savage pursuit of something bigger than routine.

This jacket—this saddle horsehide demon—is the uniform of the chosen few. Riders, fighters, makers of their own law. The leather creaks when I move. Like it remembers every mile. Every spill. Every breath.

I don’t ride for speed. I ride for truth.

So I keep going. Further. Deeper. Into the wild. Into the silence. Into the art of life.

Because fuck normal.

Fuck the beige and the fake smiles and the lines they want us to stay inside.

I’m not here for them.
I’m here for me.
And I’m not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Old blood rise again. Same dream. Samurai steel in my hands. Ink crawling up my ribs like ghosts.
Design, war, fabric, silence. A blade in the dark.
Chasing—temple shadows, stories...
Violence of purpose, madness of precision.
It’s warfare.
It’s love.
- josh

(the Northern Dream revisable Horsehide & Long Curly Sheepskin Vest)
A glimpse into my head, the “game”, the discard of outside opinions, the simple fucking fun and love behind this shit I get to call my work.
I resurrected Black Bear Brand in the way one might resurrect a ghost. It wasn’t a calculated decision, but something clawing at my sanity.
Dreams of wild ideas. I wanted to design and make things that I could love. Things just like the stories I chase, the adventures I live for.
Designing… the pursuit of something pure, honest. Chasing to feel, to feel alive.
Crazy, mad... insane; maybe, but it’s all I know, the chase is as natural as breathing. It’s what makes me smile. My life, my dreams, a relentlessness, the pursuit of the things that I can love, that will make me feel.
Every stitch, every piece of leather, denim, wool... every design is a piece of the adventure, a fragment of the wild, chaotic journey that is my life.
So, have a nice day... or not.
- Josh

The Jacket

The dream came in smoke.
Color, not quite white. but ivory, bone.
Somewhere in the blood or the dust.
The kind you see right before the crash.
Zach texted.
Just said: “Color.” I saw it before I read it.
The jacket started there. In the fog.
Leather—hauled, dyed, stretched 'til it screamed.
Cigarettes, ash, burned down to nothing.
Horween horsehide.
Looked like it killed a man.
Felt like it kissed you after.
The color? A scream in slow motion.
Built with Black Bear bones.
It grins and tells you to fuck off.
The Jacket.
Black Bear Brand × Zach Bryan special edition

THE LAST WILD AMERICAN

A master. He shrugged.
Just rides, designs, lives—.
Black Bear Brand is his. So is the road.

American. Wild. Free.
Doesn’t sit still. Doesn’t ask for approval.

He builds what he wants. Wears what he makes.
Black Bear Brand—original wool coat. 1930s. Virgin wool. Diamond quilted. Talon zipper.
Still alive. Still strong. He’s making it again—this fall.
New version. Harris Tweed. Wild pattern. Grit in every thread.
Canvas pants. Over 100 years old. His size. Rare. Heavy. Perfect.
The boots. Shell Cordovan. Custom. Not vintage, but look it.
Helmet from the ’60s. Beat-up, sacred. Rode Japan. Rode America.
Rode through everything. His favorite thing he owns.

Montana. January. 17 degrees. Northern Dream jacket. Horween Horsehide. Lambskin inside.
Gave it to a girl when they stopped. She was cold. He rode on.
Zach Bryan jacket. Ivory rough-out horsehide. Soft. Off-white. Veg tanned.
Zach wanted the first one. They’re friends. Both ride. Both live wild. Drops this summer.
Cowboy jeans. His favorite. Designed for real cowboys. Long inseam. Big buckles. Strong pockets. Finished with his mark.
Not fashion. Function.
At home—Eames lounge chair. Art you sit in. Old Nicholas Coleman painting. One of one. A black bear.
It watches him work. Watches him rest.
Panhead chopper. 1948. His first. Still rides it. Daily. Won’t ever sell.
Flathead ’37. Built it with friends. Piece by piece. Every part has a story.
’66 Lincoln Continental. His childhood dream. Still has it. Still loves it.
Defender 90. Daily beast. Old. Tough. Never fails.
Books—Mystic Warriors of the Plains. The Hokusai Sketchbooks. History. Art. Power.
Flipping pages in between chaos. His archive—Black Bear Brand catalogs. 108 years old. Original pieces to match.
He doesn’t collect. He keeps what matters. What tells the story.
He doesn’t talk legacy. Doesn’t say much at all. Just nods— hits the road again.
Master? Maybe.
Just watch.

Spring in the mountains. Black Bear Brand 30oz Terry sweatsuit, middle of nowhere, ’66 Lincoln. Pit bull Buddy by my side. No noise—just freedom, raw beauty, real life. 

morning, sunrising — the best sweatsuit on earth — my dog, ’66 Lincoln and a middle finger to the everything that doesn't make me smile
__________

Golden light cutting through trees.
Birds somewhere out there, saying too much.
Sky’s still heavy, but it’s trying.
Morning. Thick. Honest. Quiet in a way that feels loud.
Concrete underfoot
Step outside. Bare.
Slip on my Black Bear Brand suede sandals.
Soft. Meant for mornings like this.
Old money green terry sweatsuit.
The best fucking sweatsuit in the world—thick, warm, built to last.
I love it.
Carries the weight.
Doesn’t flinch.
Dog at my side.
Pit bull.
No leash. No talk.
We know what this is.
Lincoln sits waiting.
’66. Suicide doors open like a threat or a prayer.
Long, green, too much.
Perfect.
Dog follows.
Drop in.
Key turns—slow growl.
Alive
Bone-framed Black Bear Brand glasses.
Nothing to hide behind.
We roll out.
Green to concrete.
Gold light flickering through firs.
Everything waking up slow... 
Mouth open. Swallowing light.
Seattle tunnel ahead.
Good mornings.
Middle finger to whatever.
This is the start.
It always is.
And we’re off.

5 a.m. World’s out cold. Dreaming. Silent. I’m up—barefoot, tattooed. 

Alive. The kind of alive that smiles cause it shouldn't be. Crashes. Long rides. Nights I shouldn’t have survived. Wild years. 

Joints snap like dry twigs. Spine creaks. Old pain, familiar. Worm in. Etched into the skin, under the ink.

My body—map of mistakes. Masterpieces. Bad decisions. Dumb luck. Some good. Pain. Breathe. Smile. It stays. A medal. Like armor.

My old-money green sweatsuit. Fold it. Cold breath and blood running hot.

Outside. My BlueCube. 37 degrees. Ice hums low, waiting. Still, deep. She’s hungry. My ritual. Step in. Breath gone. Skin burns. Three minutes. Maybe forever.

Calm. Breath. Cold. Skin tightens. Heart slows. Thoughts scatter. Some stay.

The start the day. Discomfort, confrontation, comfort. 

First break. Birds moving. Sky gold at the edges. Sunrise. Best time, heaven, the world hasn’t figured it out yet.

Fuck aging.

Sunrise, I love the morning. 

-josh

I didn’t set out to build a brand. I set out chasing to smile, to feel, to live... and keep on keepin on.
Black Bear Brand came from what I'm dreamin—from the road, my middle finger to belief that if something doesn’t exist, I'll find a way to make it. My life is what it is from chasing my dreams, fucking up, traveling everywhere I could, crashing shit, getting marked for life with black ink in Japan, chasing everything to feel and fill an unfillable void in me.
Designing, for me, isn’t a mood board or a mission statement—it’s releasing the insanity that is in me. It gives me a moment of sanity.
I grew up in a time before everything got soft. When freedom wasn’t a post, it was a way of life. You chased it. Bleed for it. That era is where my heart and head still gets its rare moments of rest.
Welcome to the mess, the mission, the madness.
—Josh

Road—freedom stretched to the horizon.
The West—mountains, buffalo, sky so wide it could swallow you whole.
Bike—pure, mechanical truth, built before the world got soft.
Black Bear Brand jeans, vest—hand-quilted waxed canvas—the best.
World blurred, America—magnificent, wild, madness in motion.
-josh

Blue. Deep. Light. Ocean sky smashing together. Indigo—not one color—every color.
Jacket—indigo leather, hand-dyed, smells like ghosts.
Yesterday a blur. A girl, lipstick on my collar.
Sky melts into sea. Fine line of blue.
Head spinning. Calm, then not.
Dream or memory—smile.
Here now. Nothing else.
Blue. Blue.
Here I am.
-josh

I don’t know where it starts. Maybe it never did. Maybe it’s always been— Something deep in the marrow, A restless thing gnawing at sleep.
I come to Japan, Think I’ll find it. Whatever it is. And leave knowing less than before.
Kyushu. Oita. A road winding, carved by time, Harley growling through bamboo hush, Crows calling from mist and memory.
Days before— Denim looms hum in Okayama, Needles carve ink in Tokyo, Now— Samurai land, monks and ghosts, Old friends, familiar laughter, Rice steaming, fish on the fire.
The road bends. I bend with it. Seeking, chasing, A ghost of an idea, A pulse of inspiration— Grasped, gone, laughing in the wind.
Jacket worn, scarred like me. Jeans stained with dust and rain. Varsity jacket, stitched with past lives. A map, a story, A record of the ride.
And today— A new page. The fire feeds the ride, The ride feeds the fire.
No destination. Just the road. Just the ride. Just the spark of what’s to come.
Maybe I never wanted to find it. Maybe I just wanted the chase.

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.