GREELEY — The Weld County commissioner can still remember the day in 2009 when a man walked into his office and told him about a proposed oil well in a northern part of the county.
Back then, unemployment in Weld County was high. It was an epicenter of Colorado’s housing crisis. And downtown? Well, “you could shoot a cannon through it” and hit no one, Sean Conway recalled.
But in the decade since, Greeley has grown significantly — growth that residents here attribute to the 2009 oil discovery, among other factors. Downtown restaurants are bustling and on the outskirts of town, large new homes back up to the expansive farms that have long defined this area.
“We like to think we’re the best-kept secret in northern Colorado,” said Aimee Hutson, who owns the downtown coffee shop Aunt Helen’s. Itap named after her aunt, who at 107 is the oldest person in Weld County. “We have rush hour here now,” Hutson said, marveling at the city’s new growth.
But underneath that optimism is concern. The cause of that concern is a recently enacted law spoken of in legislative shorthand: “one-eighty-one.”
Four Denver Post reporters and a photographer spent a day in Greeley last week, asking residents what we and the rest of the state should know about them. It was the third stop on The Postap listening tour, a seven-city undertaking to connect with Coloradans during the break between elections and legislative sessions. This is what we heard.
“There’s no certainty”
It was late morning, a day before the Weld County Fair was set to begin. Horse trailers lined up in rows in Island Grove Regional Park, their passengers neighing indiscriminately. Jared Lehar, a 33-year-old salesman at Halliburton, prepared large grills as a colleague laid frozen burgers on them.
“Weld County has been good to us and our industry,” Lehar said. “This community has helped us to thrive.”
An unaffiliated voter, he believes Senate Bill 181, the state’s overhaul of oil and gas regulations, which gave more power to local communities to manage extraction, will ultimately be good for Weld County. The conservative county, which relies heavily on taxes from the oil and gas industry, has established its own energy office to regulate the industry.
Lehar and other Halliburton staff were at the fair to hand out hamburgers and other barbecue offerings to participants of 4-H competitions that included a horse show and cake decorating. Several of the county fair’s sponsors are oil and gas companies.
“This is our community,” Lehar said, suggesting that at least 80 percent of his family and friends work in the oil and gas industry. “We’re not big oil coming in and raping and pillaging.”
About 100 feet from Lehar and the Halliburton food truck sat Kyle Hause, a 43-year-old retired oil and gas worker with a vastly different opinion of SB 181. She is leaving her native state for Arizona next month, convinced that Colorado is becoming too similar to California.
“There’s no certainty in the future,” she said. “There’s no confidence in the governor right now. He’s a loose cannon.”
Hause said Gov. Jared Polis’ original sin was what she called a flip-flop on oil and gas. As a candidate in 2018, he opposed Proposition 112, which would have limited drilling by drastically increasing setbacks from homes and schools. However, as governor, he signed SB 181 this year.
To understand the importance of oil and gas to Weld County — and therefore the fears SB 181 has caused — you must understand everything oil and gas touches here, residents say. The county is responsible for nearly nine of every 10 barrels of oil produced in Colorado and also generates more than 30 percent of the state’s natural gas, as it sits atop the mineral-rich Denver-Julesburg Basin.
A downtown renaissance, higher education funding, a new stretch of highway and a county crime lab are all credited to oil and gas and the influx of cash it has brought to Greeley and Weld County.
At Aims Community College, president Leah Bornstein worries about the effects on higher education if new regulations cause production to plummet. “It’s a big basket for us as a community college,” she said of oil and gas money. “It’s a big basket for us as a community.”
Conway, the county commissioner, isn’t worried about SB 181. He says Polis assured him several times the state’s new law will allow Weld County to define its own destiny. “I take him at his word.”
Thatap far from the prevailing opinion here, however. Polis received about 37 percent of the county vote in November, and many don’t trust him — especially on energy issues.
“Polis’ little trick was hard for us to stomach,” Hutson, the coffee shop owner, said of SB 181. “People feel like the rug was pulled out from under their feet.”
“We need immigrants”
For Greeley residents, the issue of immigration is another that hits close to home, even for those who don’t have immigrants in their personal circles. Greeley has depended on migrants for decades to work in its meat-packing plant and as laborers on its farms.
The Immigrant and Refugee Center of Northern Colorado was created in a 2017 merger of two organizations: The Right to Read of Weld County and the Global Refugee Center. The agency connects refugees, immigrants and asylum seekers with numerous programs and services, including educational services such as English classes, and assists with jobs and community navigation.
Though the agency is working to improve economic mobility for its clients, advocacy and development director Collin Cannon said, Greeley’s JBS meat-packing plant is by far the largest employer for those the center serves. Immigrants who have lived in Greeley for years make up a large percentage of the workforce at JBS.
Miguel Sandate, a native of Mexico, has worked at JBS for almost 13 years. The work is steady, and he said he appreciates the job. Jennifer Loma, 19, lives in the same low-income housing complex as Sandate and said she has several relatives who work for or previously worked for JBS.
“It’s hard to find jobs around here,” she said.
Mario Ramos has lived in Greeley since 1982. He obtained refugee status after moving to Greeley from Mexico, he said. Ramos was a farm laborer until he was injured on the job and, later, diagnosed with cancer. He has watched Greeley grow exponentially and says the city is a much more expensive place to live now.
Ramos’ grandson, Mario Carrasco, was born and raised in Greeley and owns a roofing company. The immigrant communities in Greeley often feel isolated, he said, convinced that police and politicians don’t represent or understand them. Several immigrants who talked to The Post cited concerns about their relationships with law enforcement.
Barb Rizzo, 71, of nearby Windsor is a lifelong Republican, like many in Weld County. However, she considers President Donald Trump a racist and a bully. She didn’t vote for him in 2016 and won’t next year, either.
“We need immigrants,” she said. “Everyone’s saying, ‘Well, they have to do it legally,’ but we’re taking away all the laws that make that possible.”
