Cowboy Senator’s Legacy: Campbell’s Bold Break With Democrats Shocked Capitol

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025Ben Nighthorse Campbell, trailblazing Native American lawmaker, bridged parties and cultures with grit and authenticity. His passing marks the loss of a truly distinctive force in American politics—and a legacy of principled independence.

He grew up in Auburn, California, a son of the Northern Cheyenne tribe. Life, even early on, meant rolling with the punches; as a boy, he and his sister stayed at an orphanage, their family buckling under the pressures of illness and jail time. “I learned grit from the start,” he once remarked, quietly revealing more than autobiography ever could.

Politics, for Campbell, arrived almost by accident—driven, not by ambition, but by circumstance. On a day that might have merely involved making a sale, bad weather stranded him during a jewelry delivery trip. Looking for a way to pass the time, he wandered into a local Democratic meeting. Not only did he vouch for a friend running for sheriff, but also, in his own words, got “hooked” on the energy in the room. That spark soon cascaded into campaigns—first for the statehouse, where the odds (and establishment insiders) counted him out. He won anyway, concluding later: “When people underestimate you, it’s the best fuel.”

Campbell wasn’t one for camouflage—literally or politically. Cowboy boots, a bolo tie, often a ponytail, and sometimes, on the Senate floor, full ceremonial Cheyenne regalia. His jewelry—a hallmark of care and craft—now sits in the Smithsonian, each piece as much a part of his story as any speech. His ancestors, as he reminded Congress in a floor debate, had fallen at Sand Creek, killed despite a flag of truce. That memory, never far from his mind, animated years of advocacy on behalf of Native American rights and recognition.

He built a reputation for candor. Party ties never quite held him tight. In 1995, he stunned colleagues by crossing the aisle, trading his Democratic credentials for a Republican badge. The issue? What he saw as his own party’s sabotage of a balanced budget amendment—something he believed government sorely needed. “You can’t suit everyone,” Campbell noted, “and trying eventually erases who you are.” The record showed he didn’t change: his votes on labor, minority, and women’s issues tracked closely with his past, regardless of his new party label. Socially liberal, fiscally conservative—the description fit, even as it puzzled purists.

Campbell’s legislative legacy weaves through different strands of public life. He pushed for kids’ welfare, for labor reforms, and for watching the government’s purse strings. He also fought for Colorado’s landscapes, helping lift Great Sand Dunes to full national park status. But titles alone never defined him. At the Pan American Games, he claimed gold in judo, then competed as an Olympian. He served in Korea, raised cattle, coached the national judo team, and earned his stripes in a motorcycle hall of fame—not exactly your template politician.

Yet, for all his accolades, perhaps the stories colleagues shared after his death mattered most. Senator John Hickenlooper called him “a master jeweler whose renown stretched well beyond Colorado,” while Representative Diana DeGette said he was “truly one of a kind.” Those who knew him seldom forgot his mix of warmth, steel, and quiet humor.

Health concerns nudged Campbell from the Senate in 2005. Lying in a hospital bed, he thought of the years spent far from home, the milestones in his children’s lives that public service forced him to miss. “Do I need another six years of this?” he asked himself. In the end, he chose time with family—his wife Linda, their two children, and four grandchildren over more headlines.

Governor Jared Polis ordered Colorado’s state flags lowered in Campbell’s honor. “He will be missed here in Colorado and across the country,” Polis wrote, “and his contributions leave a lasting legacy.”

Looking back, Campbell summed up Washington with characteristic plain speech: “You get disappointed all the time. You get over it. Every day there’s something new.” In that, as in so much else, he simply kept moving forward—boots planted, eyes sharp, never all that far from his roots.

Ben Nighthorse Campbell could rarely be pinned down by labels, let alone predictions. His life bore the hallmarks of the American West: windswept, a touch wild, and surprisingly resilient. Campbell, who died at his Colorado ranch at 92 with his family nearby, wasn’t just the first Native American to serve in both chambers of Congress within his era. He embodied a kind of stubborn perseverance.He grew up in Auburn, California, a son of the Northern Cheyenne tribe. Life, even early on, meant rolling with the punches; as a boy, he and his sister stayed at an orphanage, their family buckling under the pressures of illness and jail time. “I learned grit from the start,” he once remarked, quietly revealing more than autobiography ever could.Politics, for Campbell, arrived almost by accident—driven, not by ambition, but by circumstance. On a day that might have merely involved making a sale, bad weather stranded him during a jewelry delivery trip. Looking for a way to pass the time, he wandered into a local Democratic meeting. Not only did he vouch for a friend running for sheriff, but also, in his own words, got “hooked” on the energy in the room. That spark soon cascaded into campaigns—first for the statehouse, where the odds (and establishment insiders) counted him out. He won anyway, concluding later: “When people underestimate you, it’s the best fuel.”Campbell wasn’t one for camouflage—literally or politically. Cowboy boots, a bolo tie, often a ponytail, and sometimes, on the Senate floor, full ceremonial Cheyenne regalia. His jewelry—a hallmark of care and craft—now sits in the Smithsonian, each piece as much a part of his story as any speech. His ancestors, as he reminded Congress in a floor debate, had fallen at Sand Creek, killed despite a flag of truce. That memory, never far from his mind, animated years of advocacy on behalf of Native American rights and recognition.He built a reputation for candor. Party ties never quite held him tight. In 1995, he stunned colleagues by crossing the aisle, trading his Democratic credentials for a Republican badge. The issue? What he saw as his own party’s sabotage of a balanced budget amendment—something he believed government sorely needed. “You can’t suit everyone,” Campbell noted, “and trying eventually erases who you are.” The record showed he didn’t change: his votes on labor, minority, and women’s issues tracked closely with his past, regardless of his new party label. Socially liberal, fiscally conservative—the description fit, even as it puzzled purists.Campbell’s legislative legacy weaves through different strands of public life. He pushed for kids’ welfare, for labor reforms, and for watching the government’s purse strings. He also fought for Colorado’s landscapes, helping lift Great Sand Dunes to full national park status. But titles alone never defined him. At the Pan American Games, he claimed gold in judo, then competed as an Olympian. He served in Korea, raised cattle, coached the national judo team, and earned his stripes in a motorcycle hall of fame—not exactly your template politician.Yet, for all his accolades, perhaps the stories colleagues shared after his death mattered most. Senator John Hickenlooper called him “a master jeweler whose renown stretched well beyond Colorado,” while Representative Diana DeGette said he was “truly one of a kind.” Those who knew him seldom forgot his mix of warmth, steel, and quiet humor.Health concerns nudged Campbell from the Senate in 2005. Lying in a hospital bed, he thought of the years spent far from home, the milestones in his children’s lives that public service forced him to miss. “Do I need another six years of this?” he asked himself. In the end, he chose time with family—his wife Linda, their two children, and four grandchildren over more headlines.Governor Jared Polis ordered Colorado’s state flags lowered in Campbell’s honor. “He will be missed here in Colorado and across the country,” Polis wrote, “and his contributions leave a lasting legacy.”Looking back, Campbell summed up Washington with characteristic plain speech: “You get disappointed all the time. You get over it. Every day there’s something new.” In that, as in so much else, he simply kept moving forward—boots planted, eyes sharp, never all that far from his roots.