Mountain Training Part 1: JBJ Dojo

Originally composed 3/20/12

On my way back from six months of field work in central California, I excitedly made plans to visit with my aunt and uncle in Kalispell, Montana. While planning for my trip, my uncle informed me that a friend of his from a local archery range ran a martial arts school in town, and that I was invited to come train with him if I was interested. Predictably, I immediately got my flights rescheduled to spend an extra week in Kalispell and spent my remaining 3 weeks in California in gathering excitement over the opportunity to train after nearly 8 months off the mat. It didn’t take me long to track down their website (www.jbjdojo.com) and devour every scrap of information I could about the school. The more I read, the more excited I became.

The JBJ dojo is run by Murray J. Jewett, a long-time student of American Kenpo, Yang style Tai Chi, and self defense with more than forty years of experience spread among those styles. The school earned my respect immediately with its focus on teaching “an ethical approach to living through Martial Arts training”, and a focus on a non-competitive environment while still maintaining a serious attitude of training. Classes include Oki-ryu Kenpo, Tai Chi, Chikung (or Qigong), self defense, and personalized private instruction, and rates were a fraction of most schools I’ve trained at in the past. I was thrilled.


My trip into Montana ended up a complete disaster, and when I arrived, days late, sleep-deprived, and without the majority of my clothes (my bag had been mistagged by the airlines and banished to Moline, IL), I had to wait anxiously through the weekend before my first class at JBJ. I reached Sensei Murray by phone, and was greeted heartily, told to come by as soon as possible; the best time would be 7:30 the next night for the adult Kenpo class. He didn’t have to tell me twice.

My infinitely tolerant uncle generously accommodated my eagerness to train, and treated me to an early dinner of bison burger and onion rings, which I thankfully had ample time to digest before class. We reached the dojo over an hour early due to my incurable anxiousness and excitement, pulling in amidst a delightful snowstorm (on the first day of spring, no less). The dojo itself was a humble and tidy building, an old Quonset hut constructed of corrugated steel, with a beautiful front lobby and office area added to the front. We entered, removed our shoes, and moved quietly through the front doors, where a clean and nicely decorated seating area faced the mats. A children’s class was just finishing, so I tip-toed in respectfully, offering an apologetic bow of my head toward the middle-aged gentleman running the class, who I could only assume was sensei Murray.

Sensei Murray was a solidly built man with the impeccable posture of a long-time martial artist and the vitality and sort of natural charisma by which it is often accompanied. His eyes shone with good humor and a cheerful positivity even as he corrected and occasionally scolded younger students for transgressions of discipline and minor errors alike. I was enthralled enough watching the end of the class—rich with an air of sincere gratitude and reflective meditation throughout rounds of bowing and meditative breathing—that I was caught entirely by surprise when that man’s powerful gaze fell upon me, and with a hint of a smile, he asked my last name. Over an hour early, bundled up in a jacket and sweatshirt twice my size (my bags still hadn’t arrived), and yet Sensei Murray knew precisely who I was.

I answered with the type of uncertainty one has when faced with a question on differential equations in Swahili, and was greeted by a patient smile and a request to repeat myself, which I granted more confidently the second time around. To my surprise, Sensei Murray announced my rank and training to the class and had them bow and welcome me to the dojo. I could do little more than bow frantically in response, babbling my embarrassed gratitude into the collar of my snow-dusted jacket. With that, Sensei nonchalantly offered that I join in the 6:30 class as well, and I ran into the bathroom and changed as quickly as possible, heart already pounding in excitement. I emerged in a pair of my uncle’s workout sweatpants from college (I believe this was in the late 60’s), the likes of which were made for a man more his height (he stands around 6’4” even in old age), and a “Save the Wolves” tee-shirt also appropriately sized for a goliath. Dressed like an absolute clown, I was welcomed wholeheartedly on the mat by a class of students dressed in crisp black dogi with all the neat patches, nametags, and school emblems typical of an American dojo.

Training began with hard calisthenics, pushups, leg lifts, and powerful isometrics for the legs, including horse stance and wall-sits. What surprised me most, however, was the first real warmup: Shiko. I initially thought I had misheard the assistant instructor, Sensei Murray’s wife, when she mentioned the practice, and later suspected that perhaps the word held different meanings when simplified to English pronunciation, as is typical of many East-asian languages. Yet, within moments, the students all around me were kneewalking with various degrees of comfort, practicing fluid movement and diligently avoiding collision with one another. Overjoyed (though perhaps a little worried, as I was still recovering from patellofemoral strain at my last job), I fell in among them, kneewalking as I had been taught from years of shiko-waza training at Shobu. The teaching was exactly the same, which I found reassuring and fascinating. I was curious to know how shiko benefits the karateka, given its rarity as a training form. In fact, up until this point I had not seen it anywhere but in some Aikido dojo, specifically those in the ASU. If any karateka or kenpoka reading this blog have an insight on the subject, I would love to hear it.

Things soon moved on to pad drills, which were fantastic and a well-needed challenge for me after months with no contact. We moved quickly into combinations, but despite the advanced level of the class, techniques stuck to karate basics: backfist, reverse punch, front kick, round kick, side kick, spin-side kick. We drilled these extensively, perfecting form (I dropped my hands with shameful frequency) and power, moving back and forth across the mat. I greatly respect this emphasis on basics, being one who concurs with greats like Morihei Ueshiba (the founder of Aikido) and Bruce Lee, who both made it clear that basics are the key to martial arts, and the pragmatic solutions are reached simply and without excess.

Much to my surprise, I found my dedicated independent training while working in California (which was unfortunately put on hold due to a strained ligament in the left knee) paid off immensely. My side kicks, especially on the left side, had improved tremendously from my last bout of karate training, particularly in accuracy, power, control, and balance. I was blown away at how much such a small amount of independent, solo practice had contributed to my technique. Without a doubt, I will continue taking advantage of such opportunities in the future, and would highly recommend that other martial artists take such “experimental” time themselves to figure out what best helps them learn. This subject, and my relevant experiences, will likely be covered in a later, retrospective entry.

                Throughout the class, a blackbelt student would pull students to the side and help them practice breaks for their next tests. I was understandably selected last, and by that time the other students had begun practicing forms and other testing material, which I obviously lacked. I had the chance to practice deep breathing and a good, loud kiai, smashing through a couple re-breakable boards of different levels of hardness with both hammerfists and a downward reverse punch. I’m grateful that my sempai didn’t encourage me to try anything more difficult; though in the past I had succeeded in a panoply of difficult breaks (most of which I didn't think I would ever manage) with the Tang Soo Do Mi Guk Kwan, I was definitely not in the shape or condition to repeat such feats.

After breaking, I stretched and loosened up while the other students finished their forms, and the whole class (now mostly adults, the kid’s class had been dismissed, while engrossed in training I hardly noticed) bowed out to bring the session to a close. Sensei Murray spoke briefly but poignantly about the need for sincere and self-motivated pursuit of perfection in practice. He explained that in matters of life and death, 99% is never good enough, and that a prime focus of the martial arts is to focus to continually improve one’s self to the utmost. Echoing masters whose words I have read with unending respect, he explained, “In Karate you are competing only with yourself. You learn the most by pushing you. The real Sensei is within.” With those words ringing in our ears, he motioned to the assistant instructor to begin the formal close of the class.

Again, great care was taken to ensure that each student had time to both humbly express their gratitude for the training and to quietly reflect and meditate upon what they had practiced and learned that night. I greatly enjoyed this attitude, though my recovering knees made sitting in seiza particularly uncomfortable.

The heartbreak of the evening came moments before, when it was announced that the school would be closed for the next week due to a spring break in the public schools. I would be away for the rest of the week pursuing my other passion—wildlife watching and natural history—and would thus miss the only other classes held during my time in Montana. Ouch.


After class I greeted sensei for a hearty “thank you” and was greeted with a kind smile and good conversation. He was quick to humbly wave off my questioning about a mat fee, and, when pressed about how I might pay him, he looked at me squarely and said “You already have”.

I left amidst a flurry of warm greetings and introductions from students with whom I had trained, as well as a very well-mannered pitbull-mix named “Dude”, evidently one of two dojo dogs. There is something incredibly heartwarming about a pair of canine mascots. My fellow students were approachable, kind, and interested in where I was coming from and what sort of training I had done. Beyond that, they were respectful, disciplined, and most of all serious on the mat, and made the entire experience unquestionably pleasant and rewarding.

I cannot easily express my gratitude to Sensei Murray and every student I trained with at JBJ dojo for what I hope will not be my only class there. I sincerely recommend JBJ dojo to any martial artists that might find themselves in Kalispell for any length of time. The training at JBJ is high quality, very reasonably priced, and perhaps most of all genuine in its overall attitude, with a group of dedicated, sincere, and hard-working students who understand that mutual respect and sharing of knowledge are a key part of modern martial arts.