Dan O'Brien Remembers Jim Harrison


I spent all of Easter Day on an ATV to bring buffalo in from the east side of the Cheyenne River where they had spent the winter. It was a long day but not terribly strenuous. How tiring can it be to be miles from any other human being, in a piece of the Great Plains that could serve as a time machine, complete with antelope, deer, buffalo, migrating sand hill cranes, and waves of other birds heading north to begin the world over again?

 It was the kind of day that Jim Harrison would have greatly enjoyed and, with the finches, sparrows, robins, and juncos flitting in every drainage, I thought of him more than once. I knew Jim was in Patagonia, Arizona surrounded by the birds he loved so intently. He’d been on my mind because I knew that he was not well. A day like I was having might have done him good, it was peaceful and calm. Still, I was tired when I got back to the house and I went to bed about eight o’clock. Jill was at her desk catching up on emails, Facebook, and all that other stuff that accumulates on beautiful days when sane people are out of doors. I didn’t plan on talking to her until early on Monday morning but woke about 9:30 that night when I felt her sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Dan?” I struggled to consciousness. “I wouldn’t have woken you but I thought you’d want to know.”

I roused myself and sat up. “Know what?”

She flipped on the reading light beside the bed and touched my arm. “Jim Harrison died.”

We sat in the pale light for a moment. “I debated whether to wake you or not. You need your sleep.”

I waved her concern away. “I’ll be fine.” It was not a great surprise that Jim was dead. “When?”


My next thought was that the birds that had flown over me all day had said goodbye to Jim a day or two before. “Are you all right?” Jill asked.


“Are you going to able to get back to sleep?”

“Sure,” I said. But after she turned off the light and left the bedroom I found that I couldn’t close my eyes.

The last time I talked to Jim I was shocked at the frailness of his voice. The immediate problem then was that his wife, Linda, was very sick. He was deeply worried about her and sounded more depressed than I had ever heard him. We found out a week later, that Linda had died and Jill said what we were both thinking. “He won’t last long without her.”

I called a mutual friend and we agreed that we should get down to Arizona to see Jim. But winter got away from us and we never made it. On that warm Easter evening all I could do was lay in my bed and regret our procrastination. Another would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, sleepless night.

Every news outlet would do obituaries and they would dwell, not only on Jim’s huge contribution to American literature but also on his outrageous behavior. They would try to reconcile Jim’s writing with what many people saw as a rural crudeness. They might talk about his black humor but they would miss the hilarity of his worldviews. They would not mention his kindness and sensitivity to others. Those were the characteristics of Jim Harrison that I thought of on the night after his death.  

In the late nineteen nineties I knew almost no one in the literary world. I was living in the Black Hills of South Dakota, far off the beaten path, with neighbors who had no idea that I had even dreamed of writing a book. I would have sworn that no one would ever read the book I had just sent off to a publisher in New York. When I answered the phone and someone said it was Jim Harrison looking for Dan O’Brien, I just laughed. “Who is this?”

“Harrison, I read the galleys of your book. I wanted to meet you.”

He was passing through on his yearly migration from Michigan to Montana. He didn’t have to stop. He didn’t have to read the galleys. He didn’t have to call me or take me out to eat Chinese food. Of course he didn’t have to pour me a tumbler full of whiskey when I walked into his motel room or wink at the waitress when he told her “not to bother bringing any of those cardboard boxes because we’re going to eat everything you bring us.” The whiskey and the waitress stuff were the kind of reminiscences that would make the obituaries.

Few would know about the wise council he would give me and others over the years: how to deal with New York publishers, Hollywood agents, outsized appetites, and troubled wives. How to sit on the porch of an Upper Peninsula cabin and simply listen to the trout stream babble. He ate and drank too much. Sure, but that was just the love in him coming to the surface. To dwell on that part of Jim Harrison makes for great stories but obscures the man and clouds an understanding of his genius.

Jill came to bed sometime during the night and was still asleep when I walked out into our kitchen to make coffee. The south side of the room is mostly glass and looks out onto the Cheyenne River valley. The sun was pulsing red behind the bluffs on the other side of the river. It caught my eye as I measured the coffee and drew me toward the deck where redpolls and goldfinches fluttered around the bird feeder. There were more birds than perches for them to sit on. More birds on our deck than I had ever seen before.            


  • Posted on by Christine

    Thanks, Dan, for the posting. Harrison was one of the reasons I loved living up there in Northern Michigan. I didn’t know him, but knew he was right around the bend, maybe in the tavern when I stopped, or just up the road. Made it better somehow knowing that. I loved his work and always read all as soon as it came out, having first seen it at a little bookstore in Suttons Bay on a family visit, His assistant helped me out when I was getting ready to move up there; she was the one who steered me toward conservation organizations. Funny how life’s connections fit together, ain’t it? P.S. I would not have believed it was him on the phone and/or would have fallen from my chair getting a call like that. Wonderful story.

  • Posted on by Paul Bogard

    Great post, Dan. Even though I never met Jim, I’m feeling his loss. His writing means so much to me, and it’s hard to believe he’s not out there somewhere creating more of it.

    Shoot me an email if you get a chance. It would be great to catch up. I have fond memories of swinging through SD on my way to/from New Mexico.

    Hi to Jill!


  • Posted on by Bob

    Dan -

    Your account of not making the Arizona trip to see Harrison put me in mind of the song, “No Chance,” from my favorite Lou Reed album, “Magic and Loss,” wherein he laments not having said good-bye to a dying friend. I think both you and he elegantly patched up your respective holes of regret by such touching tributes.

  • Posted on by Lan Evenson

    Dan and Jill, I started to read Jim Harrison a long time ago. I was taking a road trip through South Dakota, Wyoming on the way to Colorado and took my latest Esquire magazine with. I stopped along the way to rest and pulled out the magazine and a selection of Jim’s writing was featured in “Legends of the Fall” That along with all the rest of his books were chosen by me to read. Then I moved to Sioux Falls in the Summer of 1989 and found your book Spirit of the Hills and started to read your books too. I am very sorry for the loss of your dear friend Dan. Lan

  • Posted on by Busher

    Condolences, Jill & Dan, on the death of your friend.
    A very fitting and generous memorial piece from you, Dan.
    You have a way.

    Only from his poetry and prose have I known Jim Harrison,
    but over the last 34 years that knowing seems in great measure
    as the hydraulics of his imagination, study, understanding &
    wisdom have flooded my life from time to time; his rational sourcing
    of confusion in changing times; his pulling me from the melancholic
    riverbank back into the flow; the downright celebration of all that a man
    can enjoy and the heralding well of all the beauty man did not create.

    I’ve still, now, nine titles of Jim’s to enjoy and with time passing a lot of
    the old is new again to me.

    Your large heart, Dan, can afford the price of love which seems to come
    due on parting. A wholesome debt that needs mixing I’ve found with sunlight,
    love of others and movement to get digested. You are a good man Dan O’Brien.

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