Steven Rinella

The dust of West Texas and the silence of the canyons The conversation begins not in a studio, but in the memory of a landscape. Ryan Bingham and Joe Rogan find immediate common ground in the rugged geography of Texas and Montana, exploring why certain places feel like home while others feel like a performance. Bingham, who spent years in the creative enclave of Topanga Canyon, describes the visceral weight that lifts the moment he crosses the Texas state line. It is a sentiment Rogan shares, noting that Austin offers a community of "real people" that stands in stark contrast to the often transactional nature of Hollywood. This setting is more than just a location; it is a spiritual anchor for Bingham’s work, a place where the history of the land and the toughness of its people are still felt in the marrow. They shift to the allure of the Yellowstone universe, a series that has famously caused a migration toward the Big Sky Country. Bingham, who plays Walker on the show, recalls his time filming in southwestern Montana not as a job, but as an immersion into the wild. While other cast members retreated to cities like Missoula, Bingham sought out a cabin with no Wi-Fi on the edge of a massive wilderness area. This proximity to nature is described as a biological necessity, a return to a fertile, lifegiving environment that triggers ancient human reward instincts. The mountains, Bingham says, get into your bones, offering a potent form of "nature’s art" that can be as overwhelming as a drug. Surviving the backcountry school of hard knocks The narrative deepens as Bingham recounts a pivotal period when he stepped away from the music industry to attend a hunting guide school in the Montana backcountry. This was no mere camping trip; it was a six-week immersion into the mechanics of survival. Alongside five other students, Bingham learned the intricacies of mule packing, wilderness first aid, and leatherwork. He describes a morning in June where he woke up to snow falling on the backs of the horses, a moment of profound clarity where he felt he had found exactly where he was supposed to be. This experience reinforced a belief that modern civilization does something damaging to the human psyche, and it is only in the absence of phones and distractions that our senses—sight, hearing, smell—truly wake up. One specific drill from the school stands out: the two-minute fire challenge. In a wet, snowy environment, the instructor demanded a three-foot flame in 120 seconds. While Bingham struggled with small twigs and a lighter, a classmate from Alaska demonstrated the importance of local knowledge by snapping a dead pine branch and igniting it instantly. These small, forgotten skills—how to distill salt water using bamboo or the surprising efficacy of Fritos as kindling—are more than just trivia. They represent a connection to a lineage of human ingenuity that most modern people have completely severed. Rogan adds his own stories of Alaska with Steven Rinella, describing the "impossible wetness" of the terrain and the rugged community of people who look out for one another because, in such environments, a neighbor is the only thing standing between you and a Walmart parking lot stomp by a moose. The farmer strength of manual labor Long before he was an Oscar winner, Bingham was a laborer. He and Rogan discuss the transformative power of manual work—stacking hay in 110-degree barns, building fences, and unrolling fiberglass insulation in attics. These jobs, they argue, are essential for young people because they teach work ethic and, perhaps more importantly, clarify exactly what you *don't* want to do with your life. Bingham notes that the guitar felt significantly better in his hands than a shovel ever did, but the "farmer strength" and leverage he learned from rolling hay bales stayed with him. This history of labor provides a foundation for Bingham’s role on Yellowstone. He observes that the show’s appeal lies in its depiction of a "simple, difficult life." There is something primal and satisfying about watching men and women work with their hands and gather around a campfire afterward. This is a genetic memory being triggered; even if the audience has never sat on a horse, their DNA recognizes the relationship between humans and animals as ancient and vital. Bingham shares stories of his youngest son’s "mojo" with his old mule, Honey, noting how even the most anxious city kids relax within twenty minutes of being around these large, soulful animals. This is why Equine Therapy works—it reestablishes a bond that helped our ancestors survive for thousands of years before the invention of the machine. Predators in the backyard and the failure of management The conversation takes a darker turn as they discuss the encroachment of wildlife into human spaces. Bingham recounts seeing mountain lions lounging on his front porch in Topanga when he’s away. Rogan vents his frustration with modern wildlife management, citing the controversial decision to relocate "problem wolves" from Oregon to Colorado, where they immediately began killing livestock. They argue that bureaucrats who live in urban environments often have a delusional view of nature, treating apex predators like pets until they are eating a neighbor's golden retriever or stalking children in Malibu Creek State Park. They also touch on the environmental hazards of modern disasters. Following the Palisades fires, Bingham expresses concern about the toxic chemicals—melted electronics, treated lumber, and electric car batteries—seeping into the groundwater. In California, the red tape and regulatory hurdles make it impossible for residents to solve simple problems, like moving a rock with a tractor, without calling ten different people for permits. This stifling bureaucracy is a major factor in the exodus of people toward Texas, where, as Bingham puts it, you can just call a neighbor like "Frank" to bring his bulldozer and get the job done. They lament that a state as beautiful as California has been "regulated into oblivion," making even the most basic activities feel like a legal minefield. From the rodeo chutes to the silver screen The climax of the story is Bingham’s transition from a professional bull rider to a world-class musician. He started riding steers at age ten, treating it with the same casual regularity that other kids treated baseball. By seventeen, he was competing in Monterrey, Mexico. Bull riding is described as a purely mental game; your uncle tells you it’s not about strength, but about knowing you *will* stay on. Bingham admits he was a "test pilot," getting on fifteen wild yearling bulls a day just to see which ones would buck. This life of high-stakes anxiety and physical danger—including an injury where his lower lip was nearly ripped off by a bull's head—conditioned him for the uncertainties of the music business. Music entered his life organically. A man in Laredo taught him a Mariachi song, and Bingham soon found himself writing tunes about his weekend adventures to entertain his friends in the back of a truck. He was a "weekend warrior," working ranch jobs during the week and playing bars for tips and free beer on the weekends. He realized early on that making a hundred dollars in two hours of singing was a far better deal than digging holes all day. This path led him to Crazy Heart and eventually a chance meeting with Taylor Sheridan. Sheridan, impressed by Bingham’s authentic ranching background, didn't just want his music; he wanted him in Yellowstone. Bingham’s lack of formal acting training was irrelevant; the years of channeling fear in the rodeo chutes allowed him to step onto a set and simply *be*. The therapeutic power of a song In reflection, Bingham views songwriting not as a career path, but as a survival mechanism. At its core, it was therapy—a way to get things off his chest that he couldn't say in conversation. He encourages young artists to protect their creative spark ruthlessly and avoid the "vampires" of the industry who want to sign them to restrictive contracts. He points to the success of Oliver Anthony as proof that an authentic voice, recorded in a field with no production value, can still reach 200 million people. Bingham’s journey is a testament to the value of a rugged, unencumbered life. In a world increasingly dominated by AI and digital noise, his story serves as a reminder that the most compelling art comes from lived experience. Whether he is sitting in a room singing to the wall or performing for thousands, the goal remains the same: to stay connected to the truth. As Rogan concludes, people like Bingham are a rare breed—men who have faced the monster in the chute and come out the other side with a story to tell.