Outlaw Senator: Campbell’s Cowboy Spirit and Native Pride Shook Up Congress

Paul Riverbank, 1/1/2026 Ben Nighthorse Campbell, the Senate’s only Native American during his tenure, defied party lines and expectations—championing Native rights, labor, and his Colorado roots. His legacy is a testament to principled independence and authenticity in American politics, resonating far beyond Washington’s halls.

Campbell was the lone Native American in the Senate during his tenure, and if you ever caught him recounting his family's history, the Sand Creek Massacre always found its way to the front. That traumatic event—over 150 of his Northern Cheyenne ancestors killed by U.S. troops in 1864—left a mark that colored his public life. Colorado Congresswoman Diana DeGette summed it up after he passed at age 92: "I am thinking of his family in the wake of his loss. He was truly one of a kind." You couldn’t argue with that.

His path into politics? Nearly accidental. Snow trapped him in Durango back in ’82, and, with little more than curiosity, he poked his head into a Democratic meeting. By the end of that night, he’d spoken for a friend and—by some twist—felt the spark himself. He attacked his first campaign with all the makeshift tools of someone improvising: knocking doors, tracing routes on city maps swiped from old phone books. Years later, Campbell half-joked, "I just think I expended a whole lot of energy to prove them wrong." Whatever his motive, he never lost another race—climbing from the statehouse to the U.S. House, and on to the Senate.

His resume reads less like the average senator and more like someone who simply couldn’t sit still. Born out in Auburn, California, in 1933, he joined the Air Force—ending up stationed in Korea, then later earned a degree from San Jose State, but also spent a stretch at university in Tokyo. He even captained the U.S. judo team at the 1964 Olympics, and had a gold medal from the Pan American Games to prove it.

Experience had a way of seeping into his politics. Time in a California orphanage, for example, convinced him to fight hard for children’s rights. Work in tomato fields steered him toward unions—the Teamsters gave him his first real job driving trucks. Even a stint as a sheriff’s deputy broadened his appreciation for law enforcement. You get the picture: he learned by doing, not by theorizing on the sidelines.

Political boundaries, meanwhile, seemed more like suggestions to Campbell. Although he entered public office as a Democrat, he startled Washington in 1995 by switching to the GOP after a balanced-budget bill collapsed. That shuffle came at a price—he took flak from both sides. But as he told it: "I get hammered from the extremes...but I just don’t think you can be all things to all people, no matter which party you’re in." His core values didn’t budge, though: labor, women, minorities. He voted the same way, regardless of party label.

If there was a single thread through Campbell’s time in Congress, it was his unflagging insistence on Native American rights. Persuading lawmakers to upgrade the Great Sand Dunes from a monument to a national park stands out, but clashes were frequent—especially with environmentalists over land use. For Campbell, it was about what served Colorado’s people, even if it meant, on occasion, calling a cabinet secretary a “forked-tongued snake” on the Senate floor.

His deep streak of independence was no small reason voters re-elected him by a wide margin in 1998, despite the party switch. Six years later, though, after a health scare with chest pains—doctors looming over him in the hospital—he decided he didn’t need six more years away from family: "I have two children I didn’t get to see grow up, quite frankly." It was a rare candid moment for a public figure who had grown used to keeping focus on the job.

He hardly retired in the traditional sense. After leaving the Senate, Campbell poured creative energy into jewelry, some of it now sitting on display in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian. His consulting work—and, curiously, a line of outdoor gear with Kiva Designs—soon followed. Famously, he once drove the Capitol Christmas Tree the entire way from the Rockies to the National Mall, waving to crowds as he went.

Not every chapter was triumphant. Near the close of his Senate run, allegations emerged about his chief of staff. Campbell referred the matter straight to the Senate Ethics Committee and, when pressed, sounded less world-weary than resigned: "A lot of things happen in Washington that disappoint you...every day there’s a new crisis to deal with."

Senator John Hickenlooper, reflecting on Campbell’s passing, remarked, “He was a master jeweler with a reputation far beyond the boundaries of Colorado. I will not forget his acts of kindness. He will be sorely missed.” One senses that these words aren’t just obituary boilerplate—they echo the way Campbell lived: beyond easy boundaries, on his own terms.

Perhaps the simplest way to sum up his legacy is this: American politics, for all its partisanship and power struggles, still leaves room for originals. Campbell’s life stands as proof that being true to oneself has a resonance all its own.

Ben Nighthorse Campbell never quite blended in among his colleagues in the Senate. On Capitol Hill, polished shoes and somber ties were routine, but Campbell strode the corridors in boots, a bolo tie hanging loosely at his collar, hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had a presence—partly style, partly heritage—that was hard to overlook. One look was usually enough for anyone to guess he had a story that stretched far beyond most.Campbell was the lone Native American in the Senate during his tenure, and if you ever caught him recounting his family's history, the Sand Creek Massacre always found its way to the front. That traumatic event—over 150 of his Northern Cheyenne ancestors killed by U.S. troops in 1864—left a mark that colored his public life. Colorado Congresswoman Diana DeGette summed it up after he passed at age 92: "I am thinking of his family in the wake of his loss. He was truly one of a kind." You couldn’t argue with that.His path into politics? Nearly accidental. Snow trapped him in Durango back in ’82, and, with little more than curiosity, he poked his head into a Democratic meeting. By the end of that night, he’d spoken for a friend and—by some twist—felt the spark himself. He attacked his first campaign with all the makeshift tools of someone improvising: knocking doors, tracing routes on city maps swiped from old phone books. Years later, Campbell half-joked, "I just think I expended a whole lot of energy to prove them wrong." Whatever his motive, he never lost another race—climbing from the statehouse to the U.S. House, and on to the Senate.His resume reads less like the average senator and more like someone who simply couldn’t sit still. Born out in Auburn, California, in 1933, he joined the Air Force—ending up stationed in Korea, then later earned a degree from San Jose State, but also spent a stretch at university in Tokyo. He even captained the U.S. judo team at the 1964 Olympics, and had a gold medal from the Pan American Games to prove it.Experience had a way of seeping into his politics. Time in a California orphanage, for example, convinced him to fight hard for children’s rights. Work in tomato fields steered him toward unions—the Teamsters gave him his first real job driving trucks. Even a stint as a sheriff’s deputy broadened his appreciation for law enforcement. You get the picture: he learned by doing, not by theorizing on the sidelines.Political boundaries, meanwhile, seemed more like suggestions to Campbell. Although he entered public office as a Democrat, he startled Washington in 1995 by switching to the GOP after a balanced-budget bill collapsed. That shuffle came at a price—he took flak from both sides. But as he told it: "I get hammered from the extremes...but I just don’t think you can be all things to all people, no matter which party you’re in." His core values didn’t budge, though: labor, women, minorities. He voted the same way, regardless of party label.If there was a single thread through Campbell’s time in Congress, it was his unflagging insistence on Native American rights. Persuading lawmakers to upgrade the Great Sand Dunes from a monument to a national park stands out, but clashes were frequent—especially with environmentalists over land use. For Campbell, it was about what served Colorado’s people, even if it meant, on occasion, calling a cabinet secretary a “forked-tongued snake” on the Senate floor.His deep streak of independence was no small reason voters re-elected him by a wide margin in 1998, despite the party switch. Six years later, though, after a health scare with chest pains—doctors looming over him in the hospital—he decided he didn’t need six more years away from family: "I have two children I didn’t get to see grow up, quite frankly." It was a rare candid moment for a public figure who had grown used to keeping focus on the job.He hardly retired in the traditional sense. After leaving the Senate, Campbell poured creative energy into jewelry, some of it now sitting on display in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian. His consulting work—and, curiously, a line of outdoor gear with Kiva Designs—soon followed. Famously, he once drove the Capitol Christmas Tree the entire way from the Rockies to the National Mall, waving to crowds as he went.Not every chapter was triumphant. Near the close of his Senate run, allegations emerged about his chief of staff. Campbell referred the matter straight to the Senate Ethics Committee and, when pressed, sounded less world-weary than resigned: "A lot of things happen in Washington that disappoint you...every day there’s a new crisis to deal with."Senator John Hickenlooper, reflecting on Campbell’s passing, remarked, “He was a master jeweler with a reputation far beyond the boundaries of Colorado. I will not forget his acts of kindness. He will be sorely missed.” One senses that these words aren’t just obituary boilerplate—they echo the way Campbell lived: beyond easy boundaries, on his own terms.Perhaps the simplest way to sum up his legacy is this: American politics, for all its partisanship and power struggles, still leaves room for originals. Campbell’s life stands as proof that being true to oneself has a resonance all its own.