Homeless in the Dunes

“So you know where the official homeless camps are in town?” said a woman’s voice at the counter of an animal welfare thrift store in Gold Beach.

It was a dry and balmy Saturday afternoon on the Southern Oregon Coast and I was browsing the store’s selection of VHS tapes.

Gold Beach had official sites for homeless people to camp? Impossible.

I heard the clerk describe three such places.

Three?! Portland doesn’t have one. In this extremely conservative beach town in the extremely conservative Curry County? No way.

I eased around a corner to better eavesdrop. I heard, “Near the hospital” and “Fifth Street” and “airport” and that was it. I then noticed the woman asking about the camps and the man standing next to her. They were Gold Beach residents, or used to be. I recognized them from various local dive bars during my multiple stays over the recent years. He was a Grateful Dead fanatic and she worked as a waitress at the most expensive restaurant in town. Both were in their 50s.

They now exuded the unmistakable vibe of being homeless.

I left the store and walked to my vehicle. Parked next to mine was a red sedan I knew belonged to the couple years ago. I inspected it. Sure enough, they were living out of it, and most likely returning to town and looking for a place to crash.

What had happened to them?

I drove away and to the bookstore. A good friend manages it and I knew she would give me the lowdown on these official camp sites in Gold Beach.

She did, somewhat, but there was confusion. Was there three or five or were they even up and running at all? She also told me a rumor flying around town that some homeless advocate from Gold Beach was driving to Portland and transporting homeless people to Gold Beach because there was money in it from the state. Total bullshit of course. I hear this in every rural Oregon town I visit. They just can’t admit it’s their own people.

I drove around the hospital and didn’t seen anything that looked like a sanctioned site for homeless to camp, such as the one I had seen in Sweet Home. There were no tents anywhere. I did see, however, two or three vehicles that were clearly being used as domiciles.

Next, I drove toward Fifth Street and it looked like a dead end from Highway 101. It was near the high school, public works department, and a sewage treatment plant. The airport was around there, too, but I didn’t see anything so I turned around in a parking lot of a grocery tore and drove to check into my motel. I was exhausted after a six hours of driving and delivering a eulogy.

I checked in, ate a snack, tried watching some football, but felt restless as dusk approached. There was story about Oregon’s homeless nearby and I wanted to find it.

Shoe leather time. I donned my pea coat and headed out to the hospital. On the ground. It’s the only way to investigate a story.

So there I was, on foot, seeking a story about homelessness. I was supposed to be here for recreation and relaxation and not thinking about, interacting with, and writing on the crisis.

Fat chance. It’s everywhere in Oregon.

I walked around the hospital and down a few side roads that narrowed into housing, the willows and woods. Nothing.

An older man in uniform stood out behind the hospital dumping garbage into a dumpster. I walked up to him and saw his ID badge that read, “Housekeeper.”

I introduced myself as a writer working on a book about homeless in Oregon. Did he know anything about the alleged sanctioned homeless encampments in the area?

Yeah, he knew a lot about homelessness in Gold Beach. It was all around him and part of the hospital’s day-to-day operation. We talked for 20 minutes as the light faded. This is what he told me:

Sometimes the church next door lets homeless people camp or park their cars on its property. But they have to leave every morning and can’t leave anything behind. Maybe that’s one of the official sites? Check the dunes near the south end of the airport. I haven’t seen it but that’s what I’ve heard. We have homeless people coming to the emergency room all the time. Usually the same people. They show up or the cops and EMTs bring them. We do what we can and then discharge them after a few days. A couple have died not too long ago right after being discharged. Their bodies were found in the bushes down by the river. Exposure. We don’t have anyone on staff like a social worker to find them housing. There is no housing. There’s someone doing something in the city, I think, but I don’t know anything about that.

I thanked him for the information. It was too dark to walk to the airport so I went back to the motel.

In the morning, I walked to the airport in search of the homeless encampment carrying a cup of coffee.

I found it.

Fifth Street dead ended at the beach. A barricade blocked vehicles from driving on the sand. Someone had spray painted ALOHA on the barricade.

The encampment amounted to five tents pitched at angles in the dunes. It had a million-dollar view of the ocean and it was rolling white, slate and loud on a dry and bright morning when I stood in front of the site. The airport runway was to my back. The high school football field was a hundred yards away.

I saw the remains of a few campfires. Garbage was strewn about. There were no dumpsters or portable toilets. No water. No power. No pallets to pitch tents on. All of these amenities I had seen at the sanctioned site in Sweet Home two years ago. That site is gone now and I have no idea why. I thought it one of the best ideas to address the crisis on an emergency level.

This place was an official site? I surmised the City simply made this piece of public property available with the understanding that the cops wouldn’t hassle the residents and they wouldn’t be squatting on private property. But the City apparently wasn’t going to provide anything more, because, as the conventional wisdom goes, that enables and attracts more homeless people. I really don’t know if that is true or not. I do know if you don’t provide a few basic necessities, there is still homelessness and its squalor is intensified.

No one was stirring in the encampment. I felt a little strange doing so, but I took out my phone and snapped a few photographs.

I wanted to talk to someone but it’s not like you can go up and knock on someone’s tent and introduce yourself as a writer about Oregon’s crisis of homelessness.

Sure, I could have done exactly that, but I didn’t. I wasn’t feeling it. I want my interactions to be spontaneous and not an editorial errand.

What would these residents do when they awakened? Two inches of rain was forecast for the evening. Do homeless people take walks on Oregon’s socialist ocean beaches? Sure they do. I’ve seen it for years. They collect agates, limpets and party in driftwood forts. They run their dogs and play ball and stick with them. They also fish for perch and crab off docks and jetties.

I didn’t stay long. True, it wasn’t much of site, but the Pacific was right there as a neighbor and perhaps a counselor. It seemed much better to me than living under an off ramp to an Interstate Highway in Portland.

A half an hour later, I was walking through the dunes of another beach, Bailey Beach, across the Rogue River. I was killing time before a coffee date with a good friend.

I saw a vehicle parked in the dunes, 20 feet from the beach and approached it: a Ford Bronco 2000s, battered, rusted, duct taped, bald tires, Washington plates, expired tags. A mobile domicile for sure. They all have that look.

Nothing stirred around it. I peered inside the driver side window. The passenger seat was crammed with stuff.

I hit the beach and saw a man playing stick with a dog and assumed they were the inhabitants of the Bronco.

After a 15-minute walk, I returned to my car via a path through the dunes. The Bronco was blocking the way, but I kept heading that direction. The man materialized with his dog. His back was to me. The dog was a pitbull mix and wore a coat. The dog saw me and bolted my way. He didn’t seem angry and I greeted him like an old friend. The man called out to the dog. I met the dog and he was an old softy. Then I met the man near his rig and a woman who was in the back seat. She called out a hello from a half open back door and I caught a glimpse of her wrapped in a blanket.

They were in their 30s/40s and evinced a post meth look. His cheeks were sallow. Her face was riddled with scars. They didn’t seem high at all. They looked totally exhausted.

I asked how it was going. I said I couldn’t imagine how they survived. They said it was hard. I got their story, at least part of it:

The couple had been homeless for about a year and were from the general area. They were broke and the Bronco had run out of gas. Tomorrow, they had an appointment to meet some homeless advocate in Gold Beach who might be able to help them find housing. Was there such housing in Gold Beach? They didn’t know.

I asked if they got into housing were they going to look for work. I don’t know why I asked that—it just popped out because I had seen Help Wanted signs all over Gold Beach. They kind of nodded to that question. I didn’t press. There was no way they could live out of the Bronco and work a minimum wage job. They needed somewhere to clean up, rally and get their bearings.

“My heart breaks for you and others,” I said. It felt weird and corny saying that, but it’s what came out.

“It’s tough,” the man said.

I fished out seven bucks and handed it over to the man.

“Thank you,” he said. The woman thanked me, too.

Then I dug out a $20 and gave it to him. “Get some gas and make the appointment, “I said. “Get something for the dog, too.”

The man thanked me again.

We shook hands. I wished them good luck.

I returned the next morning intending to give them some power bars and dog food. They were gone.