June 12–14, 2026 · Secret Location · Less Than 2 Hours From MinneapolisJune 2026 · Secret Location
The Heroes
Journey
15 men. 3 days. No phones. No names. No titles.
Just the truth.
This is not a self-help seminar with a campfire. This is a weekend built on real stories from men who've lived it, deep emotional work, and the kind of brotherhood that forms when men stop performing and start being honest.
$2,495 per person · all-inclusive
Historic stone lodge. Private chef. Sauna. Lakefront. Transport. Everything included. Nothing extra.
Meeting location provided 2 weeks before the retreat. Not everyone is accepted.
Questions? Call or text the founder directly — (612) 310-3241
Read more belowWhat This Is
The Philosophy
Every decision in this retreat was filtered through one question: is this real, or is this performance? The moment something felt manufactured, it was cut. What's left is a weekend built on principles that don't need defending because they speak for themselves.
No Religion. No Spirituality. No Exceptions.
This retreat is completely agnostic. No prayers. No invocations. No higher-power language. Men of faith are welcome. Men of no faith are welcome. But the program itself holds no position. The work here is grounded in psychology, human connection, and lived experience — not theology. If a speaker brings their personal faith into their story, that's their truth and it's respected. The program never asks you to adopt any belief system.
No Macho Posturing. No Boot Camp.
This is not a program where men scream at each other to "break through." Nobody is getting smoked at 5 AM in the mud. There are physical elements — but they exist to open the body so the emotions can follow. Not to prove anything. The tone is quiet intensity, not volume. The hardest thing any man will do this weekend is sit in silence after a woman tells him what his anger does to his family.
Mindfulness as the Thread — Not the Brand
Mindfulness isn't a session on the schedule with a guru in linen pants. It's the thread that runs through everything. The silent bus ride in. Meals eaten slowly at one table. 3.5 hours of being present with yourself without the escape of words. The language is plain — not "centering your energy," just "take a breath." Not "holding space," just "listen to him." Mindfulness here is what happens naturally when you strip away every distraction a man uses to avoid himself.
No Names. No Roles. No Hierarchy.
When you arrive, no one introduces themselves. Not the founder. Not the elders. Not the chef. Not the blacksmith. For the entire first day, every man is equal — no titles, no credentials, no preconceived ideas about who holds authority and who doesn't. You eat together, walk together, sit in silence together. You have no idea who is who. The man pouring your coffee might be the one who rebuilt his life from nothing. The man sitting quietly by the lake might be the founder. Friday night, deep in the woods by a fire, every man finally speaks his name and his role. Until then, everyone is just a man who showed up.
Deep Work to the Core
This is not surface-level self-improvement. Not "5 habits of successful men." The goal is for every man to leave having confronted something real about himself — something he's been carrying, hiding from, or numbing. Not because someone forced him to, but because the environment made it safe enough and uncomfortable enough at the same time that the truth came out on its own.
Rest Is Not Weakness
Naps are encouraged. Men who stayed up until 2 AM at the bonfire should sleep until they wake up. There's a designated solo space — The Still Point — where any man can go when he needs to step away. No one follows. No one checks. He comes back when he's ready. A man who is exhausted is a man with his walls up. We don't use sleep deprivation as a tool. That's manipulation, not growth.
“The moment you introduce religion or spirituality into a men's program, you lose every man in the room who's been burned by it — and that's a lot of men.”
— The Founder, The Heroes' Journey
Friday
Day One
The departure from the ordinary world. From a parking lot to a century-old lodge to a fire deep in the woods — in a single day.
Morning
The Meeting Place
You check in alone. You hand over your phone, your wallet, your keys. Then the blindfold goes on — before you see anyone else.
The Bus
The Blind Ride
For 90 minutes, you ride a bus in complete silence surrounded by men you've never seen. You don't know what they look like. You don't know their names. You don't know their stories.
Arrival
The Arrival
When the blindfolds come off, you're standing on a hill overlooking a lake, in front of a century-old stone lodge. A fire already burning at the water's edge. But here's the part most people don't expect: no one introduces themselves. No names. No handshakes. No "what do you do?" You just… begin.
The Day
No Names. No Titles.
For the entire first day, every man is equal. You don't know who the founder is. You don't know who the elders are. You don't know who the chef is, who the blacksmith is. The man pouring your coffee might be any one of them — or he might be the guy who signed up last week. You have no idea.
The Founder
That Includes Me.
I'm just another man who showed up. I carry wood. I pour coffee. I sit in the same silence as everyone else. You eat your first meal at one long table with men whose names you don't know. Then: land work. Chop wood. Clear trail. Carry what needs carrying. Shared labor with men you don't know yet. Fifteen men and the land.
The Promise
The Pact
Before the retreat, every attendee agrees to something we call The Pact — a promise not to reveal the identity or role of anyone you recognize. Even if you know me. Even if you came with a friend. The anonymity is sacred. Because I don't want anyone walking in with preconceived notions about who holds authority and who doesn't. I don't want a man sitting across the table from an elder thinking "that's the guy who's supposed to teach me something." I want him to just talk to another man. No pedestals. No hierarchy.
Friday Night
The Fire Ceremony
After a full day of living as equals — sharing meals, sharing silence, maybe sharing a laugh with someone whose name you still don't know — everyone walks off the property and into the woods. Deep into the trees, until the lodge disappears behind you. And there it is: a fire, already burning. One by one, each man steps into the light and speaks his name and who he is. After a full day as equals, the truth comes out by firelight. Then: guitar, real songs, and the kind of conversation that only happens when the walls are already down. No curfew.
“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”
— Joseph Campbell
The Itinerary
The Weekend
After the walls come down Friday night, the real work begins. Saturday is confrontation with the things you've been avoiding. Sunday is the return home — different.
Saturday
The Ordeal
Morning
The Weight You Carry
Someone who's been through it leads the room — not a lecture, a guided conversation. He shares his own story first. Then a question that cracks something open. Then you're placed in your Home Fire for the first time — a group of 5. Four men listening to you is a different thing than fourteen. The things said in these circles will be the most honest words some of these men have ever spoken.
Late Morning
The Release
After the morning cracks things open, the body needs to move. There is a physical ordeal — designed with intention, revealed in its own time. It is not a workout. It is not punishment. It is something you will understand only after you've done it.
Afternoon
The Silence
A voice speaks — a woman, or an adult child — about what it was like to live on the other side of a man's unchecked pain. The rage. The addiction. The silence. The absence. No one responds. No one asks questions. Then, one sentence: "From this moment until dinner, your voice rests." For the next few hours, no one speaks. Sauna. Walking. Journaling. The lake. The elders move among you and speak freely — person to person, into the silence. When the whole world is quiet and one man says something only to you, it lands differently than anything on earth.
Dinner
The Silence Breaks
"Come eat." That's it. No announcement. The chef's best meal. When men sit at the long table and the food is in front of them, voices return on their own. But they'll be different. After The Silence, you're reshuffled into new groups of 5 — fresh faces, one prompt: "What was The Silence like for you?" The first words spoken after hours of silence will be the most honest words of the weekend.
Evening
The Ordeal Fire
Each man wrote something on paper during the day — the thing he's ready to let go of. One at a time, the papers go into the fire. No one reads theirs aloud unless they choose to. Then the guitar again. This fire might burn until dawn.
Late Night
The Letter
Before you leave the fire, you write a letter — to yourself. Whatever comes out. What you felt. What you're afraid of. What you're going to do differently. Seal it. Address it. Hand it in. 90 days from now, when you've forgotten what you wrote, it arrives in your mailbox. A message from the man you were at the fire to the man you've become since.
Sunday
The Return
Morning
The Return
One last guided conversation. This one is about Monday morning. Concrete tools. How to have the hard conversation you've been avoiding. How to build a circle of men in your real life. How to keep this going when you get home.
Late Morning
Commitment Pairs & The Closing Circle
You choose 1–2 men. Agree to one thing: a single check-in text in 30 days. Then the closing circle — speak or don't. One at a time, the founder walks to each man, looks him in the eye, says his first name, and places the token in his hand. Something small, hand-forged, real. No speech. No ceremony beyond the simplest possible thing: your name, spoken by the man who built this, while he puts something in your hand.
Afternoon
The Bus Home
No blindfolds this time. But the ride is not just noise. Each man gets 60 seconds to say one thing to the bus. Not a speech. One sentence. "I'm going to call my daughter when I get home." "I'm going to stop drinking." "I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I'm not going back to what I was." Then silence for the last 15 minutes. Phones returned in the parking lot. The last thing you hear before re-entering the world is quiet — not noise.
The Elders
Age Does Not Make
You an Elder.
Scars do.
An elder is not a title. It's not an age. It's not a credential on a wall. It's someone whose experience has earned them the right to speak into another person's life. Someone who has walked a road most of us can't imagine and came back with something worth saying.
Every retreat will have a minimum of three elders and up to five. We don't script our elders. We don't assign them topics or tell them what to say. There are so many extraordinary people with extraordinary stories that we'd rather have too many than too few. The mix will vary — and that's by design. What matters is that every elder has lived something worth hearing.
And here's what most people don't understand about the elders: some of them need this just as much — if not more — than many of the attendees. That's the point. This isn't a gig. It's not a performance. It's a man who has carried something heavy for a long time, sitting across from other men who are ready to hear it. For many elders, being heard is the thing they've been missing.
How Elders Experience the Weekend
You start the same. Elders ride the bus on Friday with the blindfold on, just like everyone else. No one knows who you are. No one knows your role. You are indistinguishable from every other man in that room. You eat at the same table. You carry the same wood. You sit in the same silence. For the entire first day, you are simply a man who showed up.
You end the same. Friday night at The Fire Ceremony, you step into the light and speak your name and who you are — same as everyone. Sunday, you ride the bus home together. No separation. No distinction. You are part of the group, 100%.
In between, there is flexibility. During Saturday's breakout sessions, you have a role — but how you fill it is entirely up to you. You mentor in whatever way you see fit. You share as much or as little as you're comfortable with. If you're someone who has experienced deep pain and you want to just facilitate for the first session or two before opening up, that's your call. There are no scripts. No rigid guidelines. Just men talking to men.
Saturday will be hard. For everyone — but especially the elders. You're not observing from the outside. You're in it. That's what makes this different from a speaking engagement. This weekend will ask something of you, too.
What It Costs You
Nothing. This is a voluntary role, and it is not paid — but I do not believe a single dollar should come out of your pocket. This project would be nowhere without the right people, and I refuse to let generosity cost you money.
Travel expenses are covered. If you need a plane ticket, I'll buy it. Once you arrive, you have a place to stay. You have food to eat — the same meals the private chef prepares for the group. You have access to the sauna, the lake, everything. No charge. No strings.
The payment you receive isn't money. I hope it's something else entirely — the experience of being heard, of watching a younger man's face change when your words land, of sitting by a fire at 1 AM knowing that what you carried all those years just helped someone else put theirs down.
And this isn't a one-way street. Moving forward, many of the men who attend as participants may be offered the opportunity to come back as elders. Everyone can contribute at some point and in some capacity. The man who sits in that chair and listens in June might be the one standing by the fire telling his story in September.
This is intentional. Because I don't want anyone walking in with preconceived notions about who holds authority and who doesn't. I don't want a man sitting across the table from an elder thinking “that's the guy who's supposed to teach me something.” And just as importantly — the elders need time to warm up. They carry the burden of sharing things most people never say out loud, and they may need time to prepare themselves before they're ready to speak. The anonymity gives them that space.
I want every man at that table to just talk to another man — no pedestals, no hierarchy, no pressure to perform before you're ready. If you know someone here, you promise not to reveal them. Everyone arrives equal. Everyone earns their place at the fire the same way: by showing up and being honest.
A Man Who Ran Out of Time
Maybe he confronted his own mortality. Maybe he lost someone because he was too proud, too angry, too afraid, too busy. He doesn't lecture. He just tells the truth about what he wishes he'd done differently while there was still time. Every retreat will have at least one man like this.
A Man Who Rebuilt From Nothing
Maybe he lost everything — to addiction, to crime, to his own destruction — and built a life from the wreckage. He knows what rock bottom smells like. He knows what it costs to climb back. His message isn't "I'm fixed." It's: "I'm still in the fight, and so are you."
A Man Who Holds the Space
Someone who has done their own deep work. Who leads not from behind credentials but from humanity. Who will share his own story first, then open the room with a question that sneaks in the side door and cracks something open that talking alone can't reach.
A Voice You Weren't Expecting
Saturday afternoon, before The Silence begins, a voice speaks — a woman, or an adult child — about what it was like to live on the other side of a man's unchecked pain. The rage. The addiction. The silence. The absence. Not to accuse. To witness. To hold up a mirror most men have never looked into. Then: silence.
The One Who Feeds You
A chef who understands that food is care. That a meal served family-style at one long table is an act of love. That men whose defenses are down need to be nourished — not with camp food, but with the kind of meal that says: you matter, you're worth this. The chef eats with the group. Always.
As elders and participants are confirmed, anonymous bios will appear here — their stories, in their own words, with no names and no faces. Some may share everything. Some may share nothing. You'll read their words before you ever meet them. You just won't know which man at the table wrote them.
Are You an Elder?
If you've walked a road that gave you something worth saying — not advice, not a motivational speech, just the truth about what you lived — we want to hear from you. This is not a speaking gig. There is no stage. There is no audience. It is person to person.
Elder slots available — apply below.
Apply as an ElderThe Elders
Anonymous Bios
No names. No faces. Just their stories, in their own words.
Elder 1
Confirmed
“A man the founder has known for a long time — someone he's always admired, even after they lost touch for years. This project brought them back together, and they realized they share a bond neither fully understood until now. His story is both tragic and triumphant. He's never done anything like this before. He's going to have a hard time sharing it. But he wants to. He's not walking in with a speech. He's walking in with the truth about what he's carried — because he's decided he's done carrying it alone.”
Their words will go here.
Their words will go here.
Their words will go here.
Their words will go here.
As elders are confirmed, their anonymous bios will appear here — their stories, in their own words, with no names and no faces. Some may share everything. Some may share nothing. You'll read their words before you ever meet them. You just won't know which man at the table wrote them. All others remain anonymous until Friday night of The Fire Ceremony — but any elder may choose to share details on their own terms.
What Surrounds You
The Experience
The program is the backbone. But what surrounds it matters just as much — the food, the fire, the land, the silence between the words.
The Chef & The Food
Every meal is served family-style at one long table. No cliques. No corner booths. A private chef prepares the kind of food most retreats don't even attempt — seared steaks, lobster, fresh seafood, gourmet breakfasts, craft-infused drinks, house-baked bread. This is not camp food. This is a dining experience that rivals any high-end restaurant, served in the middle of the northwoods. But you won't know who the chef is. He eats with the group — not in the kitchen, at the table. Until The Fire Ceremony, he's just another man who showed up. Coffee is always on. Charcuterie and snacks available 24/7. A midnight spread for the guys who stay up late at the fire.
The Home Fires
15 men in one circle and the quiet guys vanish. That's why you're placed in a Home Fire — a group of 5 men — on Saturday morning. Your fire is where you process the heavy stuff. Four men listening to you is a different thing than fourteen. You break out into your fire after the morning workshop and go deep in ways that a full group never allows. Saturday evening, the fires reshuffle — new faces, new dynamics. By Sunday, every man has been in deep conversation with most of the room.
The Release
There are physical ordeals built into this weekend. They are not workouts. They are not competitions. They are not explained in advance. Each one was designed with a specific purpose — and that purpose is revealed only after the body has already done the work. The mind catches up later. That's the point.
The Sauna
A wood-fired sauna on the property. During The Silence, men rotate through it without speaking. Sitting in heat with other men who cannot talk is a different experience entirely. No deflecting. No small talk. Just heat, breath, sweat, and the presence of other men carrying the same weight you are. The sauna strips everything back to the body — which is where grief, anger, and fear have been hiding.
The Music
Live acoustic guitar by the fire. Johnny Cash. Townes Van Zandt. Chris Stapleton. Tyler Childers. Jason Isbell. Zach Bryan. Colter Wall. Songs about broken men, finding their way back, loss, love, regret, and coming home. Songs that make a 45-year-old man remember who he was at 15. Anyone can play. Anyone can sing. Or just sit and listen to the fire.
The Land
A century-old stone lodge overlooking a massive lake — built by hand from the timber and stone of the surrounding land. Sandy shoreline. Western exposure, which means every sunset drops straight into the water. Hundreds of feet of private lakefront. The lodge sits elevated on a hill above it all. There is room — real room — to be alone when you need it. Private bedrooms, not bunk beds. The kind of quiet that only exists when you're an hour and a half from the nearest city. The land does half the work — it strips away the noise before any program element even begins.
The Still Point
Before the retreat starts, we identify one place on the property — a bench by the lake, a chair at the far edge of the tree line — that is The Still Point. On Friday, we name it. If you need to step away from the group, from a conversation, from your own head — go there. No one will follow you. No one will check on you. You come back when you're ready. The rule: when a man is at The Still Point, he is invisible. A man who knows he can leave is a man who's more likely to stay.
The Bonfires
Friday night is The Fire Ceremony — silence falls at sunset, then everyone walks deep into the woods after dark. The founder speaks first. Then one by one, every man steps into the firelight and speaks his name. Saturday night is The Burning — back at the lakeside fire pit, each man writes the thing he's ready to let go of on paper and puts it in the fire. No curfew either night. The best conversations happen at 1 AM when the fire is low and the lake is still.
The Letter
Saturday night, after The Ordeal Fire, you write a letter to yourself. Whatever comes out. What you felt. What you're afraid of. What you're going to do differently. Seal it. Address it. Hand it in. 90 days from now, when you've forgotten what you wrote, it arrives in your mailbox. A message from the man you were at the fire to the man you've become since. Cost: postage. Impact: the kind of thing that changes a Tuesday afternoon in October.
The Token
At the closing circle, the founder walks to each man one at a time. Looks him in the eye. Says his first name. Places the token in his hand. Something small, hand-forged, real — an iron nail, a leather bracelet, a coin with the Heroes' Journey mark. No speech. No ceremony beyond the simplest possible thing: your name, spoken by the man who built this. Something you can hold in your hand at 2 AM three months from now when the old patterns try to come back.
This is an alcohol-free weekend. Herbal teas, craft sodas, good coffee, infused water. For the men who can't be around it — and for the ones who don't realize yet that they shouldn't be.
Who's Behind This
A Word From the Founder
I'm not a great man doing great things. I want to be honest about that upfront, because if I'm asking you to show up without armor, I should go first.
I failed at relationships. I failed at friendships. I created fragility in my marriage, in my family, in my relationship with my children. I bounced between alcohol and depression for years — and I hid it well. I kept the job. I kept the smile. I kept everybody comfortable except myself. Most people had no idea. But the people I love the most? They knew. And they suffered the most because of it.
I take medication. I see a therapist. I probably always will. I still struggle — and I think I probably always will. There is an emptiness inside of me that has been there for a long time. Not that long ago, I realized I don't have very many friends I can actually call — and that's no one's fault but my own, because I pushed all the good ones away. A couple of the men I loved the most left this earth, and I wish I could have been there for them. Sometimes I thought this earth was too much for me. I stepped pretty close to the edge a few times.
But I had enough left to know this: we can't rewrite the past. Some relationships will never heal. Some friends I miss will never come back. Some of my children may carry resentment — maybe for the rest of their lives — for things I did or didn't do. But it doesn't mean I have to step off that ledge. Because it's not over.
The moment I started admitting my failures — out loud, to real people — and stopped being afraid of looking bad, stopped lying to myself in the mirror… something shifted in me that a decade of white-knuckling never could. Not in a boardroom. Not on a podcast. Over a fire at 1 AM with no one watching, sitting across from another man who said “me too.”
Joseph Campbell wrote that the hero's journey is not the story of a man who conquers the world. It's the story of a man who descends into the darkest version of himself, faces what he finds there, and comes back changed. I named this retreat after that idea because I lived it — not as the hero, but as the man who had to be dragged into the cave before he'd admit he was lost. I built this because I needed it and it didn't exist. Not the retreat with the corporate facilitator and the trust falls. Not the one with the sweat lodge and the spirit animal. Something stripped down. Something real. Something for the men who are quietly falling apart while keeping everyone else comfortable.
Every detail of this weekend was designed by asking one question: what would have reached me when I was at my worst? The food matters because a man whose guard is down deserves to be nourished. The silence matters because most men have never sat with themselves without a screen or a drink or a task to hide behind. The elders matter because when a 70-year-old man tells you what he wishes he'd done differently while there was still time, it lands in a place that no book or seminar ever reaches.
I searched for the right place for over a year. When I found it, I knew. A stone lodge built by hand over a hundred years ago, sitting on a hill above a lake. The kind of place where wealthy men once arrived by train and were chauffeured to the door for six-dollar dinners — a fortune at the time. The kind of place that hosted some of the most infamous names in American history and kept their secrets. It has walls that have absorbed a century of stories. Now it'll hold ours.
At the retreat, you won't know I'm the founder. Not when you step off the bus, not at the first meal, not during the afternoon. I'll be just another man who showed up. I carry wood. I pour coffee. I sit in the same silence. Friday night, at The Fire Ceremony, I'll speak my name like everyone else. Because if I'm asking you to drop the armor, I can't walk in wearing mine.
The answer was never a lecture. It was a fire, a long table, and someone honest enough to go first. So I'm going first. That's all this is. And if you're reading this far, you probably already know you need it.
— The Founder
Where This Comes From
The Roots
Nothing in The Heroes' Journey was invented. Every element is drawn from traditions and research that have been forging men — quietly, without marketing budgets — for decades or centuries. Here's what shaped this.
Deer Camp
The warmth of the cook shack before dawn. Stories told so many times they become scripture. The unspoken rule that what happens here stays here. Deer camp taught generations of men that brotherhood forms through shared meals, cold mornings, hard work, and the permission to just be — without performing.
Order of the Arrow
The ordeal. Silence. Service. Earning your place not through volume but through quiet endurance. The Order of the Arrow has been creating "one of the deeper and quieter mental impressions" in young men since 1915. The Heroes' Journey borrows its silence, its service element, and its understanding that discomfort — chosen, not inflicted — cracks something open.
The 5 Regrets of the Dying
Hospice nurse Bronnie Ware spent years at the bedsides of the dying and recorded their most common regrets. "I wish I hadn't worked so hard" — every male patient said this. "I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings." "I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends." These regrets are the framework for The Old Man's talk — not as a list, but as a life lived.
The Ordeal
In Campbell's Hero's Journey, the ordeal is the moment everything the hero thought he knew gets stripped away. It's not a lesson. It's not a lecture. It's something that happens to the body first and the mind later. The physical elements of this retreat were designed the same way — to be felt before they are understood.
The Ancient Model
In virtually every rite of passage across cultures, the initiate is received by those who have already walked the path. Elders speak. Men listen. Not from a stage — person to person. Wisdom delivered into silence. When the whole world is quiet and one old man says something to you, it lands differently than anything on earth. This is the model for The Silence.
After the Weekend
This Doesn't End on Sunday
The retreat is the spark. What happens after is the work. We don't send you home and disappear.
Commitment Pairs
Before you leave, you choose 1-2 men. You agree to one thing: a check-in text in 30 days. Simple. Accountable. Real.
Concrete Tools
Sunday morning is about Monday morning. How to find a therapist. How to have the conversation you've been avoiding. How to build a circle of men in your real life.
We Follow Up
You'll hear from us after the retreat. Not to sell you anything. Just to ask how you're doing. That's it.
Coming After the First Retreat
Letters to the Next Man
After June, we'll ask the men who were there one question: What would you say to the next man who's thinking about signing up?
Their words will go here.
Anonymously, of course.
Their words will go here.
Anonymously, of course.
Their words will go here.
Anonymously, of course.
No names. No headshots. Just honest words from men who've been through it — shared anonymously so the next man knows what to expect and what it meant.
The Artisans
You Leave With Something
You Can Hold.
Not a certificate. Not a t-shirt. A hand-forged knife and a handcrafted ceramic mug — made by real artists who were given one instruction: make something worthy of what these men went through.
Uncle Jed's Iron
Hand-Forged Knives
A lifelong friend and blacksmith, hand-forging a one-of-a-kind blade for every man at the retreat. Given full creative freedom.
Lofted Acre Studios
Handcrafted Ceramic Mugs
A ceramics artist in Alaska, crafting a unique mug for every man. Something you'll drink from and remember who sat across from you.
Ember Coffee Co.
Small-Batch Roasted Coffee
A friend, theologian, and author supplying all the coffee for the retreat. Small-batch roasted. On from sunrise to the last fire.
A Note on Photography
This is the first Heroes' Journey ever. A photographer may be present to document the weekend — not to interrupt it. All photos are taken at a distance and will never disrupt the work.
You can opt out entirely. If you don't want to appear in any photos, say so at check-in and your wishes will be respected completely. You will not appear in a single image.
For those who do consent, faces may still be obscured or blurred in any published photos. This documentation is for us — to remember what the first one felt like — not for marketing.
June 12–14, 2026 · Secret Location · Less Than 2 Hours From Minneapolis
$2,495
per person · all-inclusive
Included
Historic stone lodge on a private lake · private chef (steak, lobster, seafood, gourmet breakfast) · craft-infused drinks · wood-fired sauna · private bus transport
Guided by
3–5 elders with lived experience · Home Fire groups of 5 · live music · physical release
Payment
Pay in full ($2,495) or secure your spot with a $500 deposit. Remaining $1,995 due by May 1, 2026.
No upsells. No hidden costs. No tipping. Everything is included.
June is the inaugural session. Additional retreats are planned monthly through the summer and fall — and potentially year-round. All future dates TBD.
See our cancellation & refund policy.
Two Paths
Apply
The Heroes' Journey is not open enrollment. It's 15 men, chosen with intention. Not everyone is accepted — but everyone who applies gets on the list. Whether you're coming to do the work or coming to speak into it, it starts here.
As a Participant
You're a man who knows something needs to change. You don't need to know what yet. You just need to be willing to show up honestly. 15 spots. First names only.
$2,495 · all-inclusive
Apply NowAs an Elder
You've walked a road that gave you something worth saying. Not advice — truth. There is no stage. No audience. Just person to person. Scars are the qualification.
Everything covered — travel, lodging, food
Apply as an ElderHeroes' Journey Scholarship Fund
Send a Man Who Can't Afford to Go
This retreat costs what it costs because every detail matters. But some of the men who need it most are the ones who can't write the check. Your donation covers part or all of a participant's cost — and no one at the retreat will ever know. Same bus. Same table. Same fire.
Need help attending? Scholarships cover part or all of the cost. No one at the retreat will ever know.
Apply for a ScholarshipAll donations go directly to participant costs. Scholarship recipients remain completely anonymous. Cronk Companies LLC is not a 501(c)(3) — donations are not tax-deductible. Terms
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