Former U.S. Senator Alan Simpson, a towering figure in both stature and reputation, passed away at the age of 93, according to a statement released by his family and the Buffalo Bill Center of the West. His death came after months of struggling to recover from a broken hip he sustained in December, an injury that gradually weakened an already aging body but never dimmed the sharp humor and generous spirit he was known for. Simpson, who received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2022, remained an enduring symbol of Wyoming’s political heritage, a statesman whose influence extended far beyond the borders of his home state. His brother, Pete Simpson, captured the sentiment felt across Wyoming and the country when he said, “He was an uncommonly generous man. And I mean generous in an absolutely unconditional way. Giving of his time, giving of his energy—and he did it in politics and he did it in the family, forever.” To many, that generosity manifested in long conversations, sardonic wit, and a willingness to confront complex political issues head-on, even when doing so made him unpopular within his own party. His passing marks the end of an era defined by a brand of public service increasingly rare in modern American politics—one shaped by candor, a deep sense of civic responsibility, and a lifelong commitment to bridging divides.

Simpson’s political career spanned some of the most transformative years in late-20th-century American government. Elected to the U.S. Senate in 1978, he served three full terms from 1979 to 1997, a period during which President Ronald Reagan reshaped the Republican Party and the conservative movement. While Simpson was a reliable Republican vote on many core issues, he was also considered a moderate—sometimes a maverick—by contemporary standards. He prided himself on independence rather than ideological rigidity, often taking positions that frustrated activists on both sides of the political spectrum. His advocacy for abortion rights and his criticisms of overreliance on government aid placed him in a nuanced and sometimes contentious space within the GOP. Tall and immediately recognizable, Simpson was literally the tallest senator in American history at six feet seven inches until Luther Strange, standing six feet nine, surpassed him in 2017. Beyond his physical presence, he was known for his frankness and dry humor, an acerbic wit that made him a memorable figure in congressional debates. As a Senate leader, he played a pivotal role in uniting GOP senators behind key legislative priorities, doing so not through fear or force but through charisma, negotiation, and his ability to keep colleagues grounded during political storms.

Despite his leadership and influence, Simpson grew weary of the increasingly polarized atmosphere in Washington. He decided not to seek reelection in 1995, citing a sense of exhaustion with the intensifying partisanship and the performative nature of political combat. Leaving the Senate in 1997, he reentered academic and civic life with the same enthusiasm that had defined his public service. He taught courses on media, politics, and public policy at the University of Wyoming and later at Harvard University, sharing lessons drawn from decades of legislative experience. Students often recalled his storytelling abilities—alternating between humorous, sobering, and deeply personal anecdotes—to illustrate the complexities of governance. Even after leaving elected office, Simpson remained a prominent voice in national discussions about fiscal responsibility, social programs, and bipartisan cooperation. His reputation as a “deficit hawk” followed him long after his time in Congress, as did his insistence that politicians confront long-term financial challenges with honesty rather than political calculation. The same independent streak that sometimes alienated members of his party continued to guide his commentary in retirement, earning him both admiration and criticism.

Tributes poured in following news of Simpson’s passing, particularly from Wyoming’s elected leaders who saw him as both a mentor and a symbol of the state’s frontier values. Senator Cynthia Lummis wrote, “Today, our state and country mourn the passing of our dear Senator Alan Simpson. There was no stronger advocate for the needs, industries, and interests of Wyoming.” Her message emphasized the deep connection Simpson maintained with the state’s energy, agricultural, and rural communities. Senate Majority Whip John Barrasso called him “one of Wyoming’s most beloved and fiercest champions,” praising his courage in confronting difficult policy issues and his refusal to shy away from political fights when he believed in the principle at stake. Both senators highlighted his humor—a defining characteristic mentioned by nearly everyone who knew him. Colleagues often described Simpson as someone who could defuse tension in a room not by avoiding conflict but by reframing it with wit, honesty, and a perspective shaped by decades of public engagement. These tributes reflect a broader recognition that Simpson’s brand of politics—principled, blunt, and grounded in personal relationships—stands in contrast to the hyper-partisan environment shaping today’s national discourse.

Simpson’s commitment to bipartisanship was more than rhetorical; it was deeply personal and deeply rooted in his life story. Among his closest friendships were Norman Mineta, a Democrat who served as secretary of transportation under President George W. Bush, and Robert Reich, the secretary of labor under President Bill Clinton. His bond with Mineta began in childhood under extraordinary circumstances. Mineta, a Japanese-American boy, was interned with his family at the Heart Mountain War Relocation Center during World War II—a camp located near Simpson’s hometown of Cody, Wyoming. The two boys met there, becoming friends despite the incarceration of Mineta’s family and the wartime tensions surrounding them. Their friendship endured across decades, and after both men left politics, they worked together to raise national awareness about the internment of approximately 120,000 Japanese Americans during the war. It became one of Simpson’s most meaningful lifelong commitments. Mineta often recalled Simpson’s humor, telling a story about being asked the difference between a Democrat and a Republican: “Alan thought about it and he said, ‘Well, I wear size 15 shoes and he wears a size 8 and a half.’” The anecdote encapsulates Simpson’s approach—humor used not to minimize differences but to remind people of their shared humanity. His ability to build bipartisan consensus stemmed from a genuine desire to understand others, a quality that set him apart throughout his career.

In the days following his death, Simpson’s family emphasized not only his public legacy but also the personal devotion and compassion he brought into his private life. Colin Simpson, one of his three children and a former speaker of the Wyoming House of Representatives, described his father as “gifted in crossing party lines and building bipartisan consensus,” but also as a man who anchored the extended Simpson family alongside his wife, Ann. “Dad was a mighty force,” Colin said, “and with Mom’s steady hand by his side we are so blessed and proud to have been along for the ride of a lifetime.” That combination of force and steadiness—of bold leadership balanced by affection and humor—made Alan Simpson both a formidable statesman and a beloved family figure. His death leaves behind a legacy defined not simply by his policy positions or legislative achievements but by the values he embodied: integrity, service, and the belief that political life, at its best, is about solving problems rather than scoring points. As Wyoming and the nation reflect on his life, Simpson is remembered as a man who understood the weight of public service, who approached disagreement with civility and candor, and who never lost his capacity to laugh—even in the midst of conflict. His legacy continues to influence generations of leaders, reminding them that politics can still be a place for honesty, humanity, and genuine connection.