Weld County is our headquarters and it is where AGPROfessionals got its start. County Commissioner James is not alone in his views.

"As a Weld County Commissioner, I’m echoing the Rural Reckoning series—rural Colorado is fed up with being sidelined, and it’s time the Capitol listened.

When Colorado Politics and The Denver Gazette launched their “Rural Reckoning” series, it felt like someone finally stepped out of the Denver-Boulder bubble, looked east of I-25, and said, “Wait, there’s life out there?” Vince Bzdek’s most recent editorial doesn’t flinch from the obvious: the gap between Colorado’s rural roots and its urban crown is starting to look less like a crack and more like the San Andreas Fault.

To his credit, and this isn’t just lip service, Vince approaches the subject with something most statewide media outlets lost years ago: curiosity laced with humility. He doesn’t pretend there’s a single villain or one easy fix. Instead, he gives space to the cultural, economic, and political frustrations simmering on both sides of the divide.

The series is no puff piece. It’s an attempt to ask why trust between urban and rural Coloradans is eroding faster than a dirt road after a thunderstorm (don’t worry, we’ll get a road crew out to fix it). From water rights to wolves, housing to healthcare, it’s a deep dive into the slow-motion collision between ranchland realities and tech corridor fantasies. And let’s be honest, it’s long overdue.

But if you want to understand where that fault line is really flexing? Look no further than Weld County.

We are the paradox the rest of Colorado can’t wrap its Boulder-roasted, kombucha-sipping heads around. Weld is rural, and damn proud of it. We’re the state’s number one agricultural producer, number eight in the nation, and the top ag county east of the Rockies. That’s not a stat; that’s a legacy carved by calloused hands and generational grit. But we’re also booming. Western Weld rides the I-25 corridor like a bronc, rapidly developing and increasingly tied to the urban pulse. From where I type this, I can be at Coors Field in 35 minutes or under the Gold Dome in 40. Yet, step outside and you’re still more likely to hear a cow than a car alarm.

This isn’t just a tale of two Colorados. It’s a tale of one county straddling both worlds, and watching as close-by Denver ignored my friends out east.

The truth is, for those of us who’ve been living and working this rural-urban balancing act, none of this is new. My fellow county commissioners—some still holding the line in their home counties, others now fighting the good fight inside the belly of the legislative beast—have been sounding the alarm for years. We’ve had the late-night texts, the coffee (or bourbon)-fueled strategy sessions, the bipartisan griping over statehouse follies. This isn’t about party. It’s about place.

We started to see the shift when Jared Polis moved into the governor’s mansion. And no, this isn’t some reflexive bash-the-governor routine. Hell, most of us didn’t agree with John Hickenlooper on much either, but at least Hick respected rural Colorado. He made the trip. He asked questions. He didn’t pretend to be fluent in ag, but he let us be the translators.

Then came Polis, armed with platitudes and policy briefs written by people who think “irrigation” is a yoga pose. He says the right things in press conferences about listening to rural voices, about valuing ag, about “one Colorado.” But as one wise man once said in a Christmas classic, the governor sits on a throne of lies.

His words are all kumbaya and “we’re in this together,” but his policies? They gut water rights. They dump wolves in our pastures like it’s some kind of rewilding fever dream. They treat energy producers like villains, and act shocked when we push back. Either Polis sincerely believes he’s helping us and is 110 percent tone-deaf, or he knows exactly what he’s doing and figures rural Colorado doesn’t have enough votes to matter. Pick your poison. Either option is an insult.

And it’s not just Weld seeing the writing on the barn wall. Commissioners from Yuma to Prowers, from Mesa to Las Animas, are saying the same thing: the governor talks like a unifier and governs like a Boulder city councilman with a messiah complex. That’s not leadership. That’s gaslighting shod in ugly tennis shoes.

And if you want the receipts? Let’s talk about how rural Colorado’s been systematically shut out of the room where it happens. Governor Polis, in his infinite wisdom, has stacked critical agricultural and wildlife boards not with people who know how to manage livestock or balance ecosystems, but with activists who think a compost pile qualifies as a “working farm.” His appointments to the state veterinarian board and the state wildlife commission? They’ve been enviro-warriors in flannel cosplay, preaching about “coexistence” while our ranchers are out here cleaning up after literal wolf kills.

Let’s be clear: there’s a difference between loving the land and knowing how to live off it. Between hugging a cow for Instagram and pulling a calf at 2 a.m. with your arm shoulder-deep in a heifer. Polis doesn’t know the difference, and judging by his appointments, he doesn’t care to learn.

Now, look, his Commissioner of Agriculture is a likable person. No beef there. But her résumé in production ag is thinner than a fence post in a drought. Young Farmers and community gardens might be fine for school field trips and brunching urbanites, but they don’t prep you for the realities of managing Colorado’s ag economy, or making policy that doesn’t screw over the very people feeding the state.

And as for First Gentleman Marlon Reis? Let’s talk about the man who thinks AI—in the livestock sense, not the ChatGPT kind—is some sort of perverse affront to morality. Yes, really. There were backdoor moves to compare artificial insemination of farm animals to sexual abuse. That’s the kind of anti-ag extremism they were flirting with at the Capitol, while rural Colorado was left blinking in disbelief, wondering if this was policymaking or a rejected PETA campaign pitch.

Meanwhile, Polis keeps patting ag on the head like it’s a 4H project he outgrew. He grins for the camera at the stock show, then turns around and governs like he’s auditioning for Boulder’s “King of the Composters.” His loyalty has always been to the Denver/Boulder ruling axis, and rural Colorado is expected to smile through the insult and say, “Thanks for the crumbs.”

And I’ll give Vince credit. He doesn’t just highlight the problem, he actually gets it. He’s not writing some flyover explainer from a rooftop bar in LoDo. He points out that Colorado’s rural counties are vital to the state’s prosperity—providing energy, agriculture, and healthcare—but still get shafted when it comes to representation, funding, and attention. Preach, brother Vince.

Take Weld County. We don’t just participate in the state’s success—we fuel and feed it. We’re number one in agricultural production, bringing in over $2 billion annually. Number one in oil production. Number one in natural gas. And, oh yeah, number one in renewable energy production too. That’s right: we’re out here delivering everything from milk to megawatts. Weld is doing the heavy lifting while the Front Range holds the selfie stick.

Yet our voices under the Gold Dome might as well be whispers in a hurricane of urban self-importance.

Vince listed a few key takeaways from the series, and I couldn’t agree more. Let me respond to a few.

Takeaway: Anger with Polis.

Damn right. It’s not just frustration—it’s fatigue. We’re seven years into a governorship that’s been nothing but smug lectures and tone-deaf decisions. The man once told me, that he “owns a farm in my commissioner district.” True. But he also raised hell when an oil and gas pad went in across the road. He “owns” a farm the way I “own” a treadmill: it’s technically there, but I’m not training for a marathon. Polis doesn’t understand what it means to live off the land. He understands the optics. And worse, he governs for the applause of Boulder while treating the rest of us like background extras in his environmental theater.

Takeaway: The great imbalance.

Colorado has 53 rural counties and just 11 Front Range ones. But guess who runs the show? The Front Range cartel, every time. Redistricting didn’t help. It surgically reached into ag districts, pulled in a few urban blocks, and boom—suddenly your ag rep is someone who’s never set foot in a feedlot. Representation may be proportional, but it sure isn’t equitable. Our founders feared the tyranny of the majority, and rural Colorado is living that dystopia in real time.

Takeaway: Health care in trouble.

That’s not an exaggeration. Rural hospitals are circling the drain. Medicaid rules are so convoluted they require a lawyer, a decoder ring, and a séance to interpret. Diminishing provider fees are killing off care. And all we hear from the Capitol is chirping crickets and bullet-pointed platitudes about “equity.”

Takeaway: Flashpoint wolf.

Oh boy. This one’s the fever dream that just won’t quit. The urban elite voted – barely – to drop apex predators onto Western Slope ranches, while keeping their precious poodles and backyard chickens safe in the ‘burbs. Ballot box biology at its finest. Polis’s team gave us a masterclass in tone deafness by turning working ranches into predator buffet lines. Wolves weren’t reintroduced, they were unleashed, and the people footing the bill weren’t the ones casting the deciding votes.

Takeaway: The energy divide.

Weld County is ground zero here. We’ve got oil rigs, gas wells, solar panels, and farmers trying to survive between them all. And guess what? The oil and gas royalties from those wells? They’re what’s keeping some farms alive. But go ahead, tell me more about “just transition” from your $7,000 e-bike. Developers swarm in with renewable mandates, scoop up land and water rights from desperate farmers, and suddenly that 70-year-old who’s grown corn his whole life is now leasing for solar and selling water to Aurora. Why? Because the legislature choked out every other option.

Takeaway: Farmers and ranchers.

Ag is Colorado’s biggest industry, but somehow also its most ignored. While the Capitol gushes over tourism and big tech, our cattlemen and growers keep hustling – many barely breaking even – just to keep feeding the people who couldn’t pick a beet out of a lineup if their oat milk depended on it. Polis wants to be the startup governor. Great. How about you start up a little respect for the folks growing the food?

Takeaway: Bumpy roads.

Literal and metaphorical. Our rural infrastructure is shot. But instead of fixing highways, Polis is busy playing conductor on his taxpayer-funded Front Range Choo-Choo Fantasy Project. Meanwhile, we dodge axle-breaking potholes and pray for a snowplow that wasn’t diverted to light-rail land. It’s hard to haul feed when the road looks like it’s been shelled.

Vince and his team nailed the Rural Reckoning series. They called it out. They gave voice to what we’ve been shouting for years. And better yet, they’re highlighting actual solutions from people who live in the world they’re trying to fix. Imagine that.

So yeah, cowboy hats off to The Denver Gazette and Colorado Politics for the “Rural Reckoning” series. You’ve done what so few in Colorado media have the guts or bandwidth to do anymore. You listened. You pulled back the curtain and gave voice to what me and my fellow county commissioners have been hollering from the barn tops since Jared Polis swanned his way into the Governor’s Mansion:

Don’t forget about the people who feed and fuel you.

But we think he has. Over and over again.

Look, I’m proud of Weld County. Damn proud. Proud to serve as one of her commissioners. Proud that when I get in the truck and make that relatively short drive to the Capitol, I’m carrying not just the weight of Weld’s interests, but the broader voice of rural Colorado. Other counties look to Weld to lead, and believe me, we’re honored. We’re gonna keep fighting. Keep showing up. Keep banging on doors until someone inside bothers to listen.

But here’s the raw, unfiltered truth: we’re not sure the governor gives a damn. His actions sure don’t show it. His policies don’t reflect it. And his appointments don’t suggest it. Hey, we’ll get a new Guv soon enough.

Still, we won’t stop. Because we believe in this place. In its dirt-under-the-nails work ethic. In its generational wisdom. In its cattlemen, its welders, its nurses, its energy workers, its farmers.

We’ll keep standing tall, boots planted firmly in the soil he seems so eager to pave over.

The Rural Reckoning is here. And you better believe rural Colorado is keeping score."