While the mainstream brewing world is still in its first flush of kveik admiration, there is concern, in some corners, that taking yeast from its source without monetary compensation amounts to cultural pillaging.

“There are already undercurrents of this kind of thing happening because, in some ways, it is appropriation,” Preiss says. “You have something that has been removed from its traditional context and which does have some commercial value and that can create tension if the people who it derives from aren't properly recognized or compensated.”

Many farmhouse brewers would scoff to consider themselves “owners” of their kveik cultures—it would be like staking claim to the honeybees that pollinate their flowers—but that stance can leave them vulnerable to manipulation.

“The reality is that there are people profiting from these yeasts, and it's typically not the people they come from,” Preiss continues. “The question then is, how do you make the situation more fair? I think that a lot of this just came from a position of goodwill, but when you run into a situation where some kind of company is making a bunch of money from this, then that goodwill can quickly erode.”

As a personal policy, Garshol names most of the kveiks listed on his registry after their respective sources—like Sigmund Kveik, or Rivenes Kveik—and he encourages others to use those names. Preiss notes that other European brewers have previously licensed their family strains to larger breweries or yeast labs. These tactics are a start, but further conversations will likely be necessitated down the line.

For now, opinions seem to be split on how kveik should be used by international brewers. “It would be really good to see people make more of the traditional beers because I think it's important to place these yeasts into their original context in addition to exploring what they can do in contemporary styles,” says Preiss.

Gjernes, however, disagrees, and says he would prefer not to have “some international brewery making traditional beer from Voss. I love traditional beer from Norway. I would rather have some local brewery making that.”

These debates aside, Garshol notes that much of the work is still in convincing Norway’s farmhouse brewers that what they do has value at all. “A lot of these brewers are really, really isolated, and the people around them aren't necessarily very impressed with what they do. So I'm trying to show them, ‘Look, this is what people around the world think of your brewing. What you're doing is very important. You should be proud. You should convert other people in your area to brew like this.’ Because, you know, if they don't, it's gonna die.”

Garshol is busier than ever in his role as kveik’s unofficial ambassador. After writing a book about Norwegian farmhouse brewing, he will release a new, expansive work on European farmhouse brewing next year. He is also on the board of the Norsk Kornølfestival, which takes place every October in the Hornindal region, and which is one of the few major, annual events dedicated to kveik and farmhouse brewing. Lately, he has also traveled to Finland, and Russia, and other remote climes to learn more about their own obscure brewing traditions.

“Kveik is just the—how do you put it?—the tip of the iceberg,” says Garshol. “All the stuff that comes out of farmhouse brewing is a very, very big subject, where there's a lot the commercial brewer can learn. And this is just the beginning, in my opinion.”

Many people don’t realize that “kveik” actually has two meanings in western Norwegian dialects. One refers to the yeast itself. And one translates to “metaphorically breathing new life into something,” such as a fire being kindled. It’s almost too apt. 10 years ago, Norway’s last farmhouse brewers had nearly faded into obscurity. Now, their phoenixlike yeast has granted them a new immortality within the pages of brewing history.