When it comes to surviving the apocalypse, you could do a lot worse than the West Virginia branch of Fortitude Ranch, a constellation of five survivalist compounds across the United States and one of a growing number of businesses aiming to seize on Americans’ deepening anxieties about the future.
Set on a rise above the lush valley cradling the Lost River in eastern West Virginia, about two hours from Washington, D.C., the 50-acre property backs up against the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests. A handsome guesthouse, built of dark timber slats, anchors the property. Two large, boxy dormitories, also timber but more rustic, as well as a bare-bones bunker, are designed to house more than 100 members. They are each expected to pay $2,000 to $20,000 (depending on the level of accommodation) to join Fortitude Ranch, and another $1,000 per year per person in dues to call this their “home fort,” meaning they will head there when catastrophe strikes.
Some of the rooms, which vary in size and luxury, are stocked with plastic bins and duffel bags, as if awaiting a college student. But there is a more serious purpose at work here: survival. A spacious underground shelter protected by layers of concrete, steel and wood connects the two residential buildings, its walls lined with cans of coffee and tuna, as well as enormous buckets of ready-to-eat meals. (There are also underground living and meeting rooms.) Inside a locked armory, assault rifles and crossbows repose on wall pegs. On a tabletop sits a 50-caliber rifle, which could be used to take out the engine block of an approaching vehicle. An inert radiation detector is positioned nearby. (There are two at each compound.) Guard towers ring the property. The dormitories have balconies with clear, continuous sightlines along the edge of the forest.
Outside, pens hold chickens, sheep and rabbits. Their meat and eggs are intended to supplement the 2,000 calorie-per-day diet that all members are guaranteed for at least a year. “We’ll be eating a lot of kebabs,” said Steve Rene, who manages the West Virginia compound and also serves as the company’s chief security officer; he is one of three workers who currently live on the property.
Fortitude Ranch is the brainchild of Drew Miller, a retired Air Force colonel who runs the five compounds through his corporation and is seeking to expand the business through franchising. He is one of dozens of entrepreneurs who have seized on what might be called the doomsday economy, fueled by the growing “prepper” movement.
Its adherents take steps of varying degrees — from stocking several days’ supply of food and water to erecting concrete bunkers — for the mass disaster they believe is coming. You may recognize some of them as the subjects of the reality series “Doomsday Preppers.” When that program premiered on the National Geographic network in 2012, many reviewers dismissed it as comic relief. In the dozen years since, however, growing evidence of climate change, deepening political divisions and anxiety about artificial intelligence have made those apocalyptic fantasies somewhat less fantastical.
“Things are changing,” said John Ramey, the founder of the popular prepping website The Prepared. The upcoming presidential election has a majority of Americans fearing violence; the recent hit film “Civil War,” in which the present-day United States buckles under the tank treads of competing domestic armies, played into that narrative, which seemed outlandish back when “Doomsday Preppers” first aired.
The companies that have staked their claim in the doomsday economy include American Reserves, which offers prepper essentials like a 12-month supply of food ($2,799.99) and an emergency crank radio ($59.99); Fieldcraft Survival, which offers classes ($250) across the country on “traditional bushcraft and modern survival skills,” including setting traps and tying knots; and those offering luxury bunkers, such as the Vivos xPoint complex outside of Edgemont, South Dakota, where membership goes for $55,000.
Almost 20 million Americans, or about 7 percent of all households, now identify as “preppers,” based on a recent analysis of FEMA data. According to the results of last year’s National Household Survey on Disaster Preparedness, 57 percent of Americans had taken three or more steps to prepare for disaster. There had been a 15 percent increase in the share of respondents who “assembled or updated supplies” from the year before, FEMA found.
Although they probably would not identify themselves as preppers, some wealthy Americans, particularly those who made their fortunes in Silicon Valley, have begun to build lavish survivalist compounds of their own. The rapper Rick Ross announced earlier this year that he was building a luxury bunker; Mark Zuckerberg, the chief executive of Meta, is developing a $100 million, 1,400-acre compound on the Hawaiian island of Kauai that, according to an investigation by Wired, includes a “huge underground bunker” of 5,000 square feet that will come with “its own energy and food supplies.”
Mr. Miller sees a Fortitude Ranch membership as being more within economic reach for the average American. (A “spartan” accommodation offers little more than a bunk bed in a hallway; a “luxury” membership can house a family of five in a more private space, complete with a private toilet.) “We want to be an affordable survival option for the middle class,” he said.
‘People Behave Badly’
For Mr. Miller, Fortitude Ranch is the culmination of convictions he has held for decades. He grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the 1960s. Since 1948, Offutt Air Force Base, 50 miles away, had served as home to Strategic Air Command, a potential target if the Cold War turned hot. “I’m just going to get myself killed here,” Mr. Miller said he thought at the time.
Mr. Miller graduated from the Air Force Academy in 1980, and then earned a Ph.D. from Harvard in public policy in 1985. His dissertation was titled, fittingly enough, “Fortifications and Underground Nuclear Defense Shelters for NATO Troops.”
After Harvard, Mr. Miller returned to Nebraska to work as an intelligence officer before leaving active service in 1987. He then worked as a planning analyst for Conagra, as well as an independent business consultant, while also continuing to serve as an intelligence officer in the Air National Guard and, later, as an Air Force reserve. Several developments convinced him that the end of the Cold War was not going to usher in an era of global peace: 2001’s Dark Winter simulation, in which the United States was attacked with smallpox; a blue-ribbon commission that issued a report in 2004 about the danger of electromagnetic pulses, which, it said, could “produce a catastrophic impact on our society” by taking down the electric grid; the 2011 riots in Britain that began as a peaceful protest against the killing of a Black man but devolved into mass unrest.
“People behave badly; people of all colors, all races, all nationalities,” Mr. Miller said.
With his military and academic credentials, he is eager to separate himself from fringe groups with outlandish beliefs. He is particularly dismissive of “Doomsday Preppers,” which, in his view, robs survivalism of legitimacy. “The only people who would go on that show were idiots,” Mr. Miller said. “They set back the prepper industry for years. I couldn’t raise capital, couldn’t do a damn thing.”
Mr. Miller started Fortitude Ranch about a decade ago, when the prepping movement was still in its cultural infancy. To blunt the challenges of starting a business, Mr. Miller looked for properties that could double as vacation rentals, or perhaps had already been used for that purpose by a previous owner.
Today, the nearly 800 members of Fortitude Ranch can use any of its five compounds in West Virginia, Nevada, Wisconsin, Colorado and Texas for recreational purposes for up to two weeks per year, a model similar to that of timeshares. “Prepare for the Worst, Enjoy the Present,” is the Fortitude Ranch motto. Mr. Miller said his company employed 20 people and was profitable, albeit only narrowly so. “We will have about $2 million in revenues this year, and a gross profit of around $400,000,” Mr. Miller wrote in an email, later showing a spreadsheet of his financials over a Zoom video call.
A dozen potential franchisees are interested in opening Fortitude Ranch outlets of their own, Mr. Miller said, but only two are currently working on franchise compound. One is Chad Myers, who spent his career in sales and project management. He decided to open a Fortitude Ranch franchise in Tennessee after he heard Mr. Miller in an interview with Tim Pool, a video journalist and podcaster. The other is Frank Welte, a retired marine engineer who is converting a barn in the Catskill Mountains in New York into a Fortitude Ranch. Franchisees are expected to pay a one-time $40,000 fee that includes training and consulting around design, construction and regulatory standards. Beyond that initial payment, the corporation then collects 10 to 15 percent of member down payments and quarterly dues.
“They need sufficient cash to build capacity for at least 100 members,” Mr. Miller said of his prospective franchisees. “With 200, they should be comfortably profitable with positive cash flow.” He estimated that it might cost about $1 million to turn a property into a Fortitude Ranch, though he stressed that local conditions, and regulations, could alter that figure.
The recreational aspect of the business is meant to sustain it during disaster-free stretches by providing potential members with a membership incentive beyond survival. (Mr. Miller used to rent to vacationing nonmembers, and while he no longer does so, he said new franchisees would have that option.)
“I’ve decided to spend my summer here because I like it so much,” said Ray, a Fortitude Ranch member who declined to give his last name. At the moment, he was enjoying the solitude of the especially remote Fortitude Ranch compound in Nevada. After retiring from a career in the aerospace industry, Ray decided to travel around the country in an R.V. He liked that Fortitude Ranch had memberships tailored to R.V. users, and that the compounds provided him safe harbors across the country. He has a 10-year R.V. Fortitude Ranch membership, which cost him $7,000.
And though he now uses Fortitude Ranch solely as a vacation getaway, Ray is sold on the premise that it can one day protect him and his fellow preppers against a catastrophe. “If anybody comes to hassle us, or give us any trouble, there’s a group of people here that we can band together, fend for ourselves,” Ray said.
Most preppers share a similarly dim view of what the future may bring. And they have no faith that government will keep ordinary people safe. “The normal state of humanity is one of borderline starvation, disease, war, famine, all the horses of the apocalypse,” said Mr. Myers, the franchisee in Tennessee.
Mr. Ramey, the founder of The Prepared — which, now under different ownership, offers a “prepping for beginners” checklist and advice on “how to build your own survival pantry” — said he was bullish on Mr. Miller’s prospects. “Fortitude Ranch can be successful,” he said. “The market for preparedness will continue to grow as the world continues on the wrong trajectory.”
But Mr. Miller is cautious about licensing franchises too quickly. “We are not a McDonalds,” his franchising disclosure document declares. It is a blunt assertion, one meant to dispel the notion that every franchise must, like the golden arches, have thousands of uniform outlets across the country. Franchising experts agree that it is a misconception that a successful franchise must resemble the national chains most often associated with that concept.
“The vast majority of franchise systems have under 200 locations,” said Benjamin Litalien, who oversaw franchising for the energy giant Exxon Mobil and now teaches at Georgetown University. “The goal isn’t always to be the next McDonald’s when you use the franchise model,” he explained, adding that Mr. Miller’s business plan “affords him a tremendous amount of control.”
But Mr. Litalien also added a note of caution: “Anything can be franchised,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you should, necessarily.”
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