Mountain Training Part 2: Aikido Kenkyu Dantai

Originally composed 3/26/2012

My second dojo visit in Montana was at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, an independent Aikido study group based in Kalispell. This was one of two schools that Sensei Murray of JBJ dojo recommended I visit in my time in California, the other being the Sawbuck Dojang (a Soo Bahk Do school) in Whitefish, which I missed the opportunity to visit due to the short duration of my stay. With only enough time to visit one of the two recommended schools, I opted for the first time in a while to try what was familiar to me.

Thus, on Monday the 26th, I borrowed my uncle’s truck and pitted my atrocious navigation skills against the deceptively simple roads around Kalispell, and by 7:15pm, arrived safely at the dojo. Though the first class was not set to start until about 8pm, I wanted to leave ample time for all the necessary introductions and formalities necessitated by my unexpected visit. I was promptly greeted by Ken McCaskill, the assistant instructor, who was immediately loquacious and welcoming, even offering to let me borrow a loaner Gi so that I wouldn’t have to submit my fellow students to my garish, improvised workout clothes. It was about time I returned my uncle’s “save the wolves” T-shirt, anyhow.

The dojo was a small, tidy, and well-organized space in a large business building, complete with a well-kept changing room, bathroom, and a generous portion of spotless mat space. After filling out the appropriate paperwork and release forms, I eagerly bowed onto the mat to start warming up, knees still stiff and sore from my shiko practice at JBJ dojo. With a full half-hour to stretch and warm up, I took my time, and seized the opportunity to chat with Ken about the dojo, and, specifically, head instructor Walter von Krenner.

From this discussion and a thorough perusal of the dojo’s website, I learned that von Krenner Sensei had over 50 years of experience in Aikido, and had achieved the rank of 8th dan in USMA American Aikido. To my surprise, Ken informed me that von Krenner sensei, unlike other instructors of his rank, taught classes with great regularity at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, and would, in fact, be teaching tonight’s class. Given that this, too, was the only class available before my departure to Boston the following Thursday, I felt incredibly fortunate and was grateful for the opportunity.

Above all, I was excited to gain a new perspective on a discipline in which I have spent a great portion of my time in the martial arts. As I realized earlier this year, though I have traveled to a great variety of schools and tried many styles that were new to me, I have done little exploring of the Aikido community. This was partially a result of my being in high school when I began training, and thus having restricted travelling options, and later, as a college student, being unable to afford the time or money necessary to travel at length for a seminar. Overall, I had put little effort into visiting new Aikido schools. My reluctance centered on the fear that I would learn either bad habits or ideas that would run counter to my training at Shobu (my alma mater of the martial arts).

Though this had initially been a concern when I began joining other martial arts associations in college, I had eventually dismissed this fear for two reasons: first, I separated the different arts I studied and their teachings, thus viewing each in its own unique light and decidedly not concerning myself with comparison or weighing “good" and "bad". Second, as I advanced in both arts, I learned that their surface discrepancies were entirely superficial, and that at the root principles (and most advanced levels of practice), they shared all the same teachings. This pattern of thinking extended gradually into Chinese boxing, Jiujitsu, Muay Thai, Tai Chi, and nearly every other art in which I trained or tried my hand. But would this be the case in approaching a single style through different perspectives? Would I have issues with too many cooks in the proverbial kitchen?

As the start of class approached, more students trickled in—both children and adults—and my anticipation grew. I caught myself glancing outside every few minutes, searching for the santa-claus-like figure whose picture I had seen on the dojo’s website. As 8pm rolled around, Ken started the class, and after the normal bowing and clapping, began a lengthy and thorough warmup routine. It began with breathing exercises, wrist and hand stretches, and some exercises in grip strength, then moved on into lower body stretches, some yoga-like strengthening postures, and enormous amounts of rolling and falling. I was immediately struck by the amount of time spent on physical conditioning for Aikido practice, often neglected for more spiritual exercises favored by Aikido practitioners. This is likely because, due to the nonviolent and in some ways metaphysical nature of the discipline, many practitioners don't see the need for physical conditioning or physical strength (indeed, the goal is to need neither for effective self defense). Students are left to practice conditioning on their own time, or else assumed to develop it through steady training. I would be quick to argue, however, that physical conditioning is a key part of training, at least at the beginner level, and has no business being neglected by any serious school, regardless of style. To see such attention paid to these details was refreshing, not to mention necessary, given how long it had been since my last time on an Aikido mat.


By this time, I was beginning to realize that given my injuries I had retained only a remnant of the conditioning needed for the hard Aikido practice to which I had become accustomed in years prior. Rolling and falling up and down that mat, I felt my knees begin to grow weak and wobbly, and had to politely bow off the mat for a handful of desperate, self-loathing breaks.  It was while sucking wind and wincing at the throbbing of my knees that I caught sight of von Krenner Sensei, who had apparently arrived moments before and was already changed into his dogi and hakama.

He was a tall, impressive man with white hair and a full, smartly-trimmed beard which matched the crisp white of his gi and—I noted moments later, still further impressed—his belt. Whether von Krenner sensei had forgotten his black-belt that evening or not I can’t be sure, as he made no mention of it, but showed me quite well the humility of a real martial artist. It is that lack of attachment to rank, title, or recognition, which I truly respect in other martial artists; as a teacher of mine once said, it’s not the guys with the high level black belt rankings that should be respected, but the ones who, despite having such high ranks, aren’t afraid to step onto a mat (familiar or otherwise) and throw on a white belt.

Sensei von Krenner’s ruddy face was frequently split by a wide and heavily bearded grin as he chatted casually with Ken and  whatever students happened by, offering both points of advice and witty jabs at every opportunity. He soon caught sight of me, at which point I approached and introduced myself, bowing as formally and deferentially as possible. My gestures were returned, though Sensei seemed far more comfortable and relaxed than myself, immediately—and rather nonchalantly—interviewing me about where I had come from, how my flights had been, what I did for work, and so on. He spoke softly and clearly with a light German accent, adding a sort of sing-song quality to his overall warmth and cheerfulness. He had some interesting insight for me at every turn, and my nervousness was immediately dispelled by the engaging conversation and his easy  way of talking. Before I knew it, the rest of the class was ready to begin, and I was standing there still chatting with Sensei. Whether he was too polite to tell me to go sit down or not I’m not sure, but when I discovered the situation I dove back onto the mat with an apologetic bow, and he wasted no time getting the class started.


Sensei began the class with munetsuki kotegaishe, a technique in which the nage, faced with a punch toward the solar plexus, applies a wrist lock to lead the attacker off balance and throw them. I was immediately struck by the smoothness and simplicity of the movement, and watched, transfixed, as my doubts about Aikido training at other schools flew out the nearest window and into the icy Montana air of the parking lot. The technique here looked different, yes; but just as with other styles, it was only on the surface. The core ideas were the same. Irimi before tenkan; don’t let your partner recover his balance; it's not about throwing, it's about releasing; maintain awareness (zanshin) even after the technique is finished; and on it went. Before I had even begun to digest these new outward forms of what had been very familiar techniques, I was in the thick of training; rolling, falling, throwing, attacking full force without an ounce of hesitation, yet being handled skillfully and calmly by the more advanced students of the group. I eventually had the pleasure of taking ukemi for Sensei and didn’t bother holding anything back. I struck out at him with all the speed and might I could muster, and was easily dismissed and pinned while he casually, jovially explained the logic of his movements.  I was delighted not only by the quality of his technique, but the ease and candidness with which he conveyed it; bright blue eyes shone with a sort of vivacious sincerity with every explanation, making me immediately both comfortable and wholly inspired, while a happy grin, framed with ivory whiskers, seemed nearly ever present.

The rest of the students reflected these qualities (with the exception of the facial hair) as well. The attitude toward training was sincere and committed, but there was a casual, playful aspect to the training; a student could push themselves as hard as they wanted, but could take it easy if need be. I started by pushing as hard as I possibly could, having been off the Aikido mat for months, but after thoroughly exhausting myself in the first hour (I'm not half the Aikidoka I used to be), was perfectly content with a more relaxed pace of practice in which I could focus more on detail. Before long, I was learning aspects and applications of techniques I had never before considered, and thoroughly enjoying the test of taking ukemi for unfamiliar and talented nage.

von Krenner sensei made ample use of sword analogies in his explanations and demonstrations of techniques; a style of teaching and training that I have been taught is an integral part of “real” Aikido. Because Aikido was designed by refining the movements of Jiujutsu with the advanced principles of Japanese swordsmanship, Aikido training without an understanding or conscious awareness of sword movements and principles lacks some of the reality and precision important for maintaining the efficacy of a non-competitive martial art. As my teacher expressed repeatedly to me in training, the study of sword keeps Aikido from falling into fantasy which, without competition, would otherwise be imminent; it roots Aikido in a grounded reality and prevents the sort of collusion which can lead to overly floral and ineffective martial arts. There was no fantasy at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai; von Krenner sensei demonstrated techniques with huge, open movements yet with perfect timing, spacing, and control; all principles illustrated and taught by sword practice. In his lectures on sword and empty-handed movement I heard echoes of Morihei Ueshiba ("O-Sensei” or “Great Teacher”), the founder of Aikido, whose words I have read and contemplated in dozens of books. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, given that von Krenner sensei apparently trained under O-sensei for some time, but it was nonetheless thrilling for me to witness.

The class continued with a very “external” focus, primarily centered around footwork, proper form, spacing, timing, and just about every other point on form that I have always wanted to work on in greater detail. There was little slow or “kotai” practice, focused on feeling one's way through the movement, but instead mostly dynamic, rapid practice which moved at a pace too fast to let conscious thought get in the way of good movement. It was a gratifying style of training. Throughout it all, von Krenner sensei prowled the mat with a good-hearted smile, catching the most minute mistakes and errors and correcting them with solid advice and demonstration. He was incredibly informal and friendly in his speech and presentation, yet each technique was performed without an ounce of slack; there was a keen martial awareness beneath that approachable exterior that kept me thoroughly on guard. I was surprised at the amount of personal attention individual students received; von Krenner sensei would spend as long as it took to get a point across to a student, and would not be satisfied unless the lesson was well learned. This sort of careful teaching is a key advantage of such small classes. In this sense, the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai was a rarity in both the small, intimate size of the classes and the high rank of the instructor; the two rarely go hand in hand for under a thousand dollars a class.

Before I knew it, the class was drawing to a close, we were bowing to the shomen, and students were beginning to fold up their hakama. Still reeling from my first vigorous Aikido practice in more than half a year, I stumbled off the mat, changed, and returned to find sensei still engaged in happy conversation with a few students. I joined in and found myself laughing heartily at his quick humor and wit, despite being the butt of several jokes regarding Ornithology and biologists (it comes with the career, I think). As at JBJ Dojo, I was treated with incredible hospitality, and had to repeatedly insist on paying a mat fee, before finally persuading them to accept a donation. After saying my goodbyes, I left very satisfied.

After two hours of hard practice, I found my fears about the rest of the Aikido world assuaged. Though I had repeatedly seen techniques in an entirely different and unfamiliar light, I was, as after beginning my training in entirely new martial arts, unquestionably benefitted by an increased breadth of experience and perspective. I would encourage readers to not only learn from practitioners of other styles, but also to seek contact with those who see their own style in a different way. Though it may be initially unsettling to have some of what you've learned called into question, this is precisely how techniques and training maintain their rigor and effectiveness. Without the input of many minds and the polite dissidence of disagreeing viewpoints, the martial arts would lose their flexibility and thus their practicality as combative systems. Thus, in broadening their knowledge and experience throughout their martial journey, I urge readers to explore not only new disciplines but also different perspectives on their own discipline. It will certainly hit close to home, but the rewards are distinctive as they are great.

If ever a reader finds his or herself in Kalispell, Montana, they should not fear a dearth of good training despite the remoteness and ruralness of the area. The training I found there was high quality and matched by a serious, open, and welcoming attitude which made visiting and training at those schools highly enjoyable. My biggest regret is not having the time to train more intensively or for a longer period of time.