This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

It was during a four-hour train ride from Linz, Austria, to Berlin that I really got to know Norm Bangerter.

The governor was on an extended trip to Europe, including some former Soviet bloc countries, to explore economic-development opportunities for Utah in the wake of the Iron Curtain's fall.

We had just finished attending an international conference on trade and were on our way to the recently united city that had defined postwar Germany's struggles.

It had been an exhausting trip and just about everyone in the Bangerter entourage, including several state employees, his wife and some business leaders looking for opportunities and academics exploring the new Europe, were spent.

On the train, most of the Utah delegates slept — except the governor and me. He spent four hours in the dining car, off the record, telling me whom he liked — and whom he loathed — in politics. It was a signature moment in my journalistic career. Here was a governor, a leader in a Republican Party that distrusted the press, sharing his most intimate thoughts. Unlike many in the GOP, he trusted me.

I rewarded that trust by keeping those opinions between him and me. But the conversation gave me an insight into Utah's 13th governor and the political minefield he had to negotiate, convincing me that he was one of the most honest, purest thinking and finest governors the Beehive State has seen.

That sentiment was echoed by Calvin Rampton, Utah's iconic three-term Democratic governor, who often said in public that Bangerter was the best Republican governor in state history.

Perhaps surprisingly, some of Bangerter's favorite politicians were Democrats, including former Salt Lake City Mayor Ted Wilson, who had run a nail-biter race against him when he won re-election in 1988, and former state Democratic Party Chairman Randy Horiuchi, who had sparred vigorously with the GOP governor and seemingly got under his skin.

Some of those he disliked were prominent Republicans, whom I will not name, per his wishes.

But there were some so-called Bangerter loyalists who jumped ship as soon as his re-election prospects waned.

The governor, in one of the boldest moves I've seen by an officeholder in the 40 years I've covered Utah politics, had proposed the largest tax increase in state history to preserve the integrity of the public education system, which was woefully underfunded.

It was the right thing to do, but a tax hike by a Republican governor was seen as heretical by segments of the GOP. Bangerter's approval ratings plunged.

When Jon Huntsman Sr., seen as royalty by many Utahns, announced he would challenge the incumbent in the Republican primary, several Bangerter campaign aides traded sides. Then, when the industrialist-philanthropist changed his mind and opted against running, the defectors scurried back to Bangerter.

Their treachery did not escape the man who entertained me with one of the most fascinating conversations I have had with a Utah politician.

"There are your friends," he told me, "and there are your political friends. And it's prudent to know the difference."

Bangerter not only was one of Utah's top governors, he also was the best House speaker I've witnessed as a political observer. He was master of the House when Democrat Scott Matheson, whom he would succeed as the state's chief executive, was governor and the Legislature was overwhelmingly Republican.

But Bangerter — because he was loved by his GOP colleagues, thanks to his down-home, everyman personality — helped Matheson achieve many of his goals.

Why? Because it was the right thing to do — an all-too-rare motive in these days of partisan sniping and gridlocked government.

When I covered the Bangerter administration, he was one of the most open public officials I've ever seen.

If he had a meeting with a group of advocates, I was allowed to walk in and sit down. He then would tell his guests that I was a reporter, and I was welcome in his meetings. If they objected, he would ask me to leave. But the assumption was that I had a right to be there. He had nothing to hide.

Back to the trip in Europe: There usually were three limousines used in the cities we visited. One was for Bangerter, his wife, the Utah security guards assigned to protect him and the state employees assigned to navigate him through the region's politics.

The employees were sycophants, trying to please the governor as if he were a prince.

He eventually tired of them and when we were in Moscow, his limo pulled to the side. One of the guards came back to the limo where the secondary folks, like me, rode. He said Bangerter wanted me to ride with him.

So into his car stepped an annoying journalist and out stepped the kiss-up aides.

Bangerter and I disagreed on many political issues, and he loved arguing with me about them. He craved different perspectives and the challenge of defending his own views.

One last memory.

The Bangerters were devout Mormons, as were most of the Utah delegates. When we were hosted at a breakfast by an electronics giant in the Netherlands, corporate officials had done their homework and learned that Latter-day Saints abstain from coffee.

So the servers were informed that the Dutch members would get coffee, and the Utahns would receive orange juice. Because I was part of Bangerter's procession, I got OJ.

Halfway through the breakfast, Bangerter's wife, Colleen, noticed my anguish. And this sweet Mormon woman, who would never let coffee grace her lips, tapped the arm of one server and said, "That young man over there would like some coffee."

As a reporter-turned-columnist, I should be careful about exposing my personal opinions and showing any kind of bias.

But with the death of this former governor, whom I admired as a statesman and valued as a friend, I'll say it: I loved the guy.