Diary of a Small-Town Mayor: Boundary County and the Antigovernment Movement

By Darrell Kerby

Having been born and raised in Boundary County, I now find myself moving quickly toward my eighth decade here. Not long ago, a newspaper journalist interviewed me about how politics has changed over my lifetime. While this piece does not directly reflect that interview, it encompasses the thoughts that surfaced afterward.

My earliest recollections of Bonners Ferry’s political climate date back to the late 1960s when I was just entering my teenage years. At that time, most local elected officials were Democrats. By the 1980s, political tides shifted, with Republicans taking the lead.

Yet, despite changes in party affiliation, governance remained largely consistent—both Democrats and Republicans prioritized fiscal responsibility, sought efficiency, and aimed to serve as honorable stewards of public resources. Beneath these transitions, there was always a prevailing belief: government should be small but effective, a quiet force rather than an intrusive presence.

Then, almost overnight, everything changed. The passage of the Endangered Species Act and other well-intended federal environmental policies sent ripples through our way of life. Large portions of the national forest, once freely accessible, suddenly became restricted.

Logging operations slowed. Recreational areas shrank. Even gathering firewood became a regulated activity. The shift was palpable—what had once been open and familiar was now fenced off, controlled. The local Forest Ranger, once a trusted community ally, became a reluctant enforcer, caught between policy and people.

It was during this time that the phrase “federal overreach” emerged, spoken with frustration and growing concern. To understand why this hit so hard, one must grasp the essence of Boundary County: more than two-thirds of our land is publicly owned. Families here had built lives centered around that land—working it, stewarding it, depending on it for survival.

When access was suddenly limited, it felt as if something fundamental was being taken away. Yet, this frustration wasn’t rooted in blind opposition to government; rather, it stemmed from the upheaval of traditions that had sustained generations.

This sentiment was easily misunderstood by those outside the region. People unfamiliar with the reality of living off the land—the strain, the pride, the resilience—often saw this frustration as extreme, even dangerous. When a small, radical white supremacist group, the Aryan Nations, moved into North Idaho, misconceptions deepened.

Some began painting Boundary County as a haven for antigovernment extremism, a characterization that could not have been further from the truth. At one point, even the Southern Poverty Law Center placed our County Commissioners on a hate group watch list. Then came Ruby Ridge. The tragic events there seemed to confirm suspicions that our community harbored antigovernment radicals poised to defy authority.

The reality was far more complex. Boundary County’s identity was never shaped by rebellion—it was shaped by self-reliance, community bonds, and a deep love for country. To suggest otherwise was akin to saying that all Seattle residents were homeless simply because some lived on First and Second Avenue. Today, we face a new wave of change.

A fresh group of people has moved into the area, drawn in part by the county’s historically limited government oversight. Some arrived with good intentions, eager to embrace the independence and small-town spirit that defines this place. Others, however, saw an opportunity to exploit what they perceived as widespread antigovernment sentiment. Running for office on promises to fight “government overreach,” they introduced something unfamiliar—distrust.

Where neighbors once relied on one another, suspicion now took root. Their approach to politics diverged sharply from tradition. They vilified opponents, distorted records, and manipulated narratives to claim power. Initially, they gained traction, but the fabric of this community is strong, and people here recognize sincerity when they see it.

These newcomers lean so far to the extreme that they dismiss legal counsel, insisting their own instincts and personal philosophies outweigh professional expertise. One even declared he governs by a constitution “in his own head.” I have little doubt that this political wave will pass. Boundary County has long operated on a simple principle: newcomers are welcome, given ample room to carve their own path—but once they reveal their true character, that same rope can quickly tighten.

This is not about radicalism or resistance. It is about protecting the integrity of a community built on mutual respect, hard work, and an unshakable sense of belonging.