Duane Harris, 71, of rural Perkins County, SD passed away at St. Alexius Medical Center in Bismarck, ND on April 13, 2026.

Branding of Duane’s casket will take place at 4:00 p.m. MT on Sunday, April 19, 2026, followed by visitation until 6:00 p.m.  A Gathering of Family and Friends and a Time of Sharing will be at 6:00 p.m., all at Evanson Jensen Funeral Home in Lemmon, SD.

Celebration of Duane’s life will be Monday, April 20, 2026 at 10:30 a.m. MT at Calvary Lutheran Church in Lemmon, SD.  Charlotte Kvale and Ben Wiechmann will officiate and following a time of fellowship and lunch at the Church, burial will follow at the Harris Family Ranch Cemetery, south of White Butte, SD.

Duane Alan Harris, 71, of Lemmon, South Dakota, lived the kind of life most folks only talk about—a life built on grit, faith, hard work, and a deep love for family, land, and community.

Duane was born October 22, 1954, in Lemmon to Robert and Shirley Harris. As their firstborn, he stepped into the role of big brother early, later joined by Rodney, Darin, Devin, and Denise. From the start, Duane was shaped by the wide-open country he called home—a place that would define him for the rest of his life.

He graduated from Lemmon High School in 1972, but a classroom was never going to hold him for long. Duane followed his calling to work with horses, attending horseshoeing school in Sperry, Oklahoma. When he returned, he went to work for his grandparents, Walter and Judith Longwood, and for Tim and Joanne Seim. Those years weren’t just jobs—they were the beginning of a lifelong way of living, one rooted in ranch work, horsemanship, and doing things the cowboy way.

In 1975, Duane’s story took a turn when he met Dawn Kasparek of Moses Lake, Washington. Introduced by Ed Wiesinger, the two quickly found something special. A year later, on July 30, 1976, Duane and Dawn set out on a road trip with Tim and Joanne Seim through the buttes toward Ekalaka, Montana. Somewhere along the way, in true Duane fashion, the plan became simple: get married. They picked petunias from a stranger’s yard, found a pastor, and were married in a small log Baptist church. It was the start of 49 years together—built not on grand plans, but on shared adventure, laughter, and unwavering commitment.

Their honeymoon was just as unforgettable—spent in bunkhouses, visiting friends, going to rodeos, and even getting stuck in the mud at Isabel. That was Duane’s way: life wasn’t meant to be polished, it was meant to be lived.

Later that year, on a cold December night, Duane and Dawn were ice skating on the North Grand River when Dawn fell. By 4 a.m. the next morning, they were on their way to Hettinger, where their son, Willie D. Harris, was born. Their daughter, Bridget LeeAnn Harris, followed on December 8, 1980. Duane was proud of his kids, but even more so in later years, proud of the life they all built together.

Duane spent years traveling to rodeos, shoeing horses for Johnny Holloway and for neighbors across the region. For a time, he lived in Thermopolis, Wyoming, breaking horses for the Arapaho Ranch. He didn’t just work hard—he chased excitement too. In 1978, he entered suicide horse races throughout the Midwest. He liked to tell the story of riding a 17-hand horse named Pooge, saying afterward that if he’d been a woman, he would have “wet his pants.” That mix of courage and humor followed him all his life.

In 1987, Duane and Dawn bought the Kaubisch place. That land became more than a home—it became his life’s work and his legacy. There, they built their ranch and raised horned Herefords. Duane didn’t believe in tagging cattle; he knew every one of them by sight, by markings, by memory. He fed with a team of horses and rode horseback everywhere for years, holding onto the old ways as long as he could. Eventually, he brought in modern equipment—and even built a road—but at his core, Duane never stopped being a true cowboy.

He was a man people counted on. Whether it was brandings, helping a neighbor, digging a dam, hauling gravel, or just showing up when someone needed him, Duane was there. In 1993, he went to work for the Burlington Northern Railroad, putting in seven years to secure a future before returning full-time to ranching in 2001. Even then, he never slowed down—taking on dirt work, running heavy equipment, and helping anyone who asked.

But what truly set Duane apart was his heart. He looked after people. He made sure neighbors—especially those living alone—were cared for. He opened his home to his father in law, Simon Kasparek, Henry Isdal and Feathers Seim, believing deeply that people should be able to stay where they belonged. He didn’t turn away from responsibility—he leaned into it.

Duane also carried a quiet kind of honor. With his team of horses, he helped lay friends to rest, providing one final ride to those who had ridden alongside him in life. It was a gesture that spoke louder than words ever could.

He was a quiet man, but when he spoke, it usually came with a dry sense of humor that caught people off guard and left them laughing. He was the kind of man you called when something needed fixing, building, or figuring out. As he would say himself—a jack of all trades, master of none—but to those who knew him, he mastered what mattered.

Duane was preceded in death by his infant brother Rodney; his grandparents Walter and Judith Longwood; his parents Robert and Shirley Harris; his in-laws Simon and Viola Kasparek; his sisters in law, Audrey (Ed)  Ginter, LaVonne (Glenn) Jackson, brothers in law Rodney (Judy) Kasparek, David (CeCe) Kasparek, Russell Kasparek; his nephew Blaux Harris; his aunt Marlene Morton and uncle Will Morton; his uncle Daryl Martin; and his cousins Cody DeTrolio and Rainn Stadheim.

He is survived by his wife of 49 years, Dawn; his son Willie (Bobby Jo); his daughter Bridget (Albert); and his grandchildren Luke and Trinity Harris, and Albert III, Korbin, Bodee, Teagan, and Terek Keller—each of whom carries a piece of his legacy forward.

Duane didn’t need a spotlight to leave his mark. It’s in the land he worked, the cattle he raised, the people he helped, and the family he loved. His was a life well-lived, plain and simple—and one that won’t be forgotten.