Trevor Barrett stokes the coals of his forge as he contemplates his next project—a Tolkien-inspired sword—all while listening meditatively to the enchanting choral rhythms of Skyrim.
Like the dwarves of Middle Earth, he readies his hammers, planning to strike out on anvil a rune-encrusted sword.
Only, he lives in Alaska.
Just the right mix of passion for hunting, Lord of the Rings, and epic overworld video games planted in his mind the seeds for the blade-smithing business he would successfully launch.
Add a few YouTube DIY tutorials, and the 36-year-old from Haines, an old gold rush town, became an entirely self-taught bladesmith. His outlandishly ornamental, yet fully functional, swords are an ode to craftsmanship
Besides “reading things like Lord of the Rings” while growing up, “being a hunter in a woodland here in Alaska, I started to be interested in what makes a good blade,” Mr. Barrett told The Epoch Times.
“I went on YouTube and I googled how, and I taught myself how to do it. Trial and error.”
It started with the search for the perfect hunting knife. He wanted a jack of all trades, not too big, not too small, a knife for “a little bit of everything when you’re trying to survive out in the wilderness,” he said.
He was a gas station attendant when that search began eight years ago. His initial labors bore fruit, with his first forged blade becoming the knife he’s now known for, his flagship and best seller, named the Denali—honoring his Alaskan roots.
“Eventually, somebody was like, ‘Hey, are you selling?’” he said. “One thing led to another, and eventually it became my full-time profession.”
Growing in skill, though, he found something was missing in his ideal hunting knives. Besides having the requisite edge retention (strength), flexibility, and comfort in the hand, they lacked personality—a soul.
“I would always be a bit dissatisfied,” he said, adding that he grew bored with mere banal utility. “It needs something more.”
That something more was found drawing from the classic Tolkien trilogy: “The Lord of the Rings.”
He already knew his metallurgy: Hammering bars of high carbon steel, he could forge the basic shape of a simple, medium-sized sword in a day. It would be quenched in oil for hardness. Then tempered in fire for flexibility. Swords were balanced for optimal handling or else would be useless scrap metal. Lastly, the grinding and polishing brought its edge and ornamentation to the perfect finish.
But to imbue something more, he found the engraving of runes—fantasy script—gave a “personality and a presence behind it,” he said. “That just stuck with me, and I loved it.”
And so, channeling this inspiration, he forged Andúril, the two-handed sword of Aragorn, based on a movie replica he ordered. It features a heavy pommel for balance and handle done in leather for comfort.
Later came Aldrissil, derived from Tolkien naming conventions, made of Damascus steel—no mean feat to produce, for Damascus involves hundreds of folds and complex chemistry. This heavily ornamented sword was the culmination of his efforts. It bore a northern lights stone set in the guard—again honoring Alaska.
Both swords took him upwards of three months each to finish.
Currently, Mr. Barrett’s is working on a 300-layer Damascus rapier from “The Princess Bride.” It is to be a client’s “engagement sword” and set with red and black opal. Clients pay big money for such fantasy weapons—north of $10,000 for a fancy sword—but that’s because of how much labor they require, he said. It’s the price of authenticity.
Today, blade smithing has become something of a ritual for Mr. Barrett. It’s not just about the perfect blade anymore, but incorporates the experience and aesthetic of forging the old-fashioned way.
“I use more traditional-looking hammers for some reason,” he said. “In the summertime, the shop’s windows are open constantly so then you get to smell the forest.”
Mingling with the scent of oil in the quench tank, it’s intoxicating.
“I try to work without the lights as much as I can and just let the natural lighting come in,” he said. “I love seeing the sun streaming in the window.”
One hears a chorus of dwarven chanting seemingly in the background. Mr. Barrett fondly plays the soundtracks of fantasy films and the Skyrim video game—just the atmosphere for contemplating his next hammer strike.
He must focus on “letting go of everything outside the shop,” he said. “I slow it down.” For if he’s distracted, not taking time to visualize what he is making, in an instant one slip of the hammer could cost him weeks of work.
But, when he strikes, he strikes with a purpose.
Each stroke is intentional, deliberate, and careful, he said. It is acting “with intention, with deliberate forethought, not just wildly hammering.”
Incorporated in his process are modern metal grinders and compounds to add strength to wooden handles, yet he endeavors to keep things as traditional as possible.
Someone once told Mr. Barrett this is a slow way to make money. He should be more efficient, they said.
“I’m not interested in just getting a brand of blade,” he said, adding that his interests lie more in “learning how they used to do it.”
He said, “It hasn’t changed very much in thousands of years. And that’s because we figured it out.
“No, I do just about everything with the hammer on the anvil.”
