Legendary Maverick Ben Nighthorse Campbell Forged Gritty Legacy in Congress

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025Ben Nighthorse Campbell, Colorado’s maverick senator, blended grit, artistry, and Native American heritage, leaving a bipartisan legacy defined by independence and service over party loyalty.

Colorado lost a unique figure with Campbell's passing at 92. His origins almost read like a dime novel. Born in Auburn, California in 1933, life came at him sideways: his father wound up behind bars, his mother battled tuberculosis, and times got so tough that he and his sister ended up in an orphanage. Years later, he’d recall the sting of not truly being present for his own children, his voice carrying the weight of old regrets.

Campbell was no stranger to adversity. He signed up with the Air Force and ended up serving in the Korean War—that part of his journey rarely made the headlines, but it was where, arguably, he learned to tough it out. By ’57, he finished his studies at San Jose State. And long before his political career took shape, he’d punched his ticket to Tokyo as captain of the 1964 U.S. Olympic judo team. If you wanted proof of his ability to fight—for himself or his ideals—you didn’t need to look much further than the tatami mats.

Oddly enough, it was his artistry, not politics, that initially put him on the map. Campbell was a jeweler—more precisely, a master silversmith—with works wound up in places like the Smithsonian. There’s a story from the early '80s: he was flying to California to deliver his pieces. Weather grounded his plane in Durango, Colorado. Killing time, he stumbled into a Democratic county meeting. By sheer chance, he ended up giving a speech for an old friend running for sheriff. He’d later joke that was the day politics “hooked” him, the way only real life coincidences can.

He made a habit of winning once he got started, throwing himself into grassroots campaigns, driving battered roads across the state, and literally ripping maps from phone books just to figure out where he was headed next. There’s a half-remembered tale of a campaign stop when a man, brandishing a tire iron, mistook Campbell for a debt collector. “No man, I’m just running for office,” Campbell explained, managing to defuse the tension and probably win a vote in the process.

His rise—it was quick. State house, then the U.S. House, and in 1993, a seat in the United States Senate. Politics during those years were turbulent, but Campbell seemed to thrive on being unpredictable. He started as a Democrat but didn’t stay constrained by those lines. In the spring of 1995, he crossed the aisle—frustrated that Democrats shot down a balanced budget amendment. “I get hammered from the extremes,” he said not long after. “I’m always willing to listen... but I just don’t think you can be all things to all people, no matter which party you’re in.”

The switch angered some, delighted others, but never seemed to ruffle him. “It didn’t change me,” he’d insist, “I didn’t change my voting record. For instance, I had a sterling voting record as a Democrat on labor. I still do as a Republican. And on minorities and women’s issues.” The press, people who know politics, often pegged him as a maverick—an overused word, perhaps, but it fit.

His heritage as a member of the Northern Cheyenne tribe was more than just biography; it anchored his sense of purpose. He often spoke about the Sand Creek Massacre—his ancestors among those lost in 1864. It wasn’t history for him, it was legacy. He pushed successfully to make Great Sand Dunes a national park. And he’d lock horns with environmentalists if, in his eyes, tribal water rights were being trampled. Campbell’s ideas didn’t fit neatly in one bin; socially open-minded, fiscally hard-nosed, his determination grounded in blue-collar roots and a stint driving trucks with the Teamsters. “Hooking up with the Teamsters and learning to drive a truck got me out of the California tomato fields,” he once said, squeezing a little humor out of hard times.

Healthy skepticism of D.C. maneuvering kept him grounded. Scandal came knocking late in his Senate days: his chief of staff was accused of soliciting kickbacks. Campbell, unflinching, forwarded the case to the Senate Ethics Committee, “A lot of things happen in Washington that disappoint you,” he said plainly at the time. “You just have to get over them because every day there’s a new crisis to deal with.”

An unexpected health scare nudged him out of public life. Convinced it was a heart attack—though it wasn’t—he reevaluated priorities, choosing family and his jewelry studio over another bruising campaign. But by then, his imprint was already deep in Colorado clay, and on plenty of minds in Washington.

Campbell had a rare knack for both kindness and resolve, a combination remembered by friends and colleagues alike. Democratic Senator John Hickenlooper described him as “truly one of a kind.” Congresswoman Diana DeGette sent condolences and praised the trail he’d blazed.

If there’s an overarching theme to Campbell’s story, it’s this: he saw politics as a calling, not a career. He once summed up his life’s arc with characteristic straight talk: “I just think I expended a whole lot of energy to prove them wrong.” In that, he succeeded—across hand-built ranches, on Capitol floors, and in the untold everyday stories left behind.

Ben Nighthorse Campbell had a way of turning heads in Washington, long before people knew his name. Walking through Capitol Hill’s marble corridors, he’d show up wearing cowboy boots, a bolo tie, his signature ponytail swinging—certainly not your standard congressional attire. But unlike so many who pass through those halls in pressed suits, Campbell brought with him an authenticity forged far from any political power center.Colorado lost a unique figure with Campbell's passing at 92. His origins almost read like a dime novel. Born in Auburn, California in 1933, life came at him sideways: his father wound up behind bars, his mother battled tuberculosis, and times got so tough that he and his sister ended up in an orphanage. Years later, he’d recall the sting of not truly being present for his own children, his voice carrying the weight of old regrets.Campbell was no stranger to adversity. He signed up with the Air Force and ended up serving in the Korean War—that part of his journey rarely made the headlines, but it was where, arguably, he learned to tough it out. By ’57, he finished his studies at San Jose State. And long before his political career took shape, he’d punched his ticket to Tokyo as captain of the 1964 U.S. Olympic judo team. If you wanted proof of his ability to fight—for himself or his ideals—you didn’t need to look much further than the tatami mats.Oddly enough, it was his artistry, not politics, that initially put him on the map. Campbell was a jeweler—more precisely, a master silversmith—with works wound up in places like the Smithsonian. There’s a story from the early '80s: he was flying to California to deliver his pieces. Weather grounded his plane in Durango, Colorado. Killing time, he stumbled into a Democratic county meeting. By sheer chance, he ended up giving a speech for an old friend running for sheriff. He’d later joke that was the day politics “hooked” him, the way only real life coincidences can.He made a habit of winning once he got started, throwing himself into grassroots campaigns, driving battered roads across the state, and literally ripping maps from phone books just to figure out where he was headed next. There’s a half-remembered tale of a campaign stop when a man, brandishing a tire iron, mistook Campbell for a debt collector. “No man, I’m just running for office,” Campbell explained, managing to defuse the tension and probably win a vote in the process.His rise—it was quick. State house, then the U.S. House, and in 1993, a seat in the United States Senate. Politics during those years were turbulent, but Campbell seemed to thrive on being unpredictable. He started as a Democrat but didn’t stay constrained by those lines. In the spring of 1995, he crossed the aisle—frustrated that Democrats shot down a balanced budget amendment. “I get hammered from the extremes,” he said not long after. “I’m always willing to listen... but I just don’t think you can be all things to all people, no matter which party you’re in.”The switch angered some, delighted others, but never seemed to ruffle him. “It didn’t change me,” he’d insist, “I didn’t change my voting record. For instance, I had a sterling voting record as a Democrat on labor. I still do as a Republican. And on minorities and women’s issues.” The press, people who know politics, often pegged him as a maverick—an overused word, perhaps, but it fit.His heritage as a member of the Northern Cheyenne tribe was more than just biography; it anchored his sense of purpose. He often spoke about the Sand Creek Massacre—his ancestors among those lost in 1864. It wasn’t history for him, it was legacy. He pushed successfully to make Great Sand Dunes a national park. And he’d lock horns with environmentalists if, in his eyes, tribal water rights were being trampled. Campbell’s ideas didn’t fit neatly in one bin; socially open-minded, fiscally hard-nosed, his determination grounded in blue-collar roots and a stint driving trucks with the Teamsters. “Hooking up with the Teamsters and learning to drive a truck got me out of the California tomato fields,” he once said, squeezing a little humor out of hard times.Healthy skepticism of D.C. maneuvering kept him grounded. Scandal came knocking late in his Senate days: his chief of staff was accused of soliciting kickbacks. Campbell, unflinching, forwarded the case to the Senate Ethics Committee, “A lot of things happen in Washington that disappoint you,” he said plainly at the time. “You just have to get over them because every day there’s a new crisis to deal with.”An unexpected health scare nudged him out of public life. Convinced it was a heart attack—though it wasn’t—he reevaluated priorities, choosing family and his jewelry studio over another bruising campaign. But by then, his imprint was already deep in Colorado clay, and on plenty of minds in Washington.Campbell had a rare knack for both kindness and resolve, a combination remembered by friends and colleagues alike. Democratic Senator John Hickenlooper described him as “truly one of a kind.” Congresswoman Diana DeGette sent condolences and praised the trail he’d blazed.If there’s an overarching theme to Campbell’s story, it’s this: he saw politics as a calling, not a career. He once summed up his life’s arc with characteristic straight talk: “I just think I expended a whole lot of energy to prove them wrong.” In that, he succeeded—across hand-built ranches, on Capitol floors, and in the untold everyday stories left behind.