The hidden homeless

"Don't have a roof. Don't have walls. But I've got my freedom."

By ALEX BRANCH

STAR-TELEGRAM STAFF WRITER

FORT WORTH -- The forgotten are always on display along East Lancaster Avenue. Homeless people fill the sidewalks, looking for food, work, drugs or a spot in one of the shelters.

But look deeper into the surrounding overgrown landscape. A hidden world emerges.

Follow a steep, rocky path down a hill into a thicket of trees near Interstate 30, just east of downtown. Push aside the branches; step over strewn garbage. Find a clearing where tents are pitched around a fire pit.

A handprinted sign on one tent reads: "Do not enter unless envited. Knock first. This is my home."

Welcome to Toevarville.

That's the name created by one of the camp's residents, a tattooed, wiry man in Dickies overalls and a stocking cap. He says his name is Toevarieshka Voncruchien. The 57-year-old has lived here for nine months with his dog Maxine.

"Don't have a roof. Don't have walls," he said. "But I've got my freedom."

Toevar, as he is known on the street, is among the unknown of Tarrant County's homeless population: the hundreds who live outdoors in tents, lean-tos or shanties.

Dragging their few possessions, they are nomads, hunting for small slices of land where they can drive their temporary stakes. They tend to stay away from the shelters, some out of fear, others out of their hatred for crowds and rules. Others have been thrown out because of unruly behavior.

Most are men of all races and ages. Some are women and, occasionally, families with children.

Mental illness and substance abuse ail many. Crime is rampant; robbery and theft occur frequently among the camp dwellers.

A few camps are tidy, even clean. Others are filthy. Conditions were so bad at a camp in Arlington that police said it would cost a minimum of $10,000 to decontaminate it of human waste.

For most of the year, they are hidden in the trees near major roadways or the Trinity River in Fort Worth, and in the woods of northeast Arlington. In the winter, the leaves fall, exposing their orange or blue tents.

On Thursday night, volunteers with the Tarrant County Homeless Coalition will venture into the camps for a comprehensive count and survey of the county's homeless population. The results could help cities craft strategies to fight chronic homelessness.

The coalition estimates that, in the last decade, the number of homeless people on a given day has doubled to more than 5,000.

But available housing, assistance services and prevention programs have not kept up with the surge, coalition President Mike Doyle said. If the homeless population keeps growing, more people will be left sleeping outside.

"And, out there, they are in survival mode," Doyle said. "Not forward-thinking mode, where they can improve their lives."

Life in the camps

Toevar's camp consists of four tents and, on any given night, between three and six people. His brother, David Parker, a friend and, occasionally, a few people who miss the shelters' curfews sleep here.

A woman with mussed brown hair is sitting inside Toevar's tent smoking a cigarette.

"I'm staying here 'cause I got hurt real bad by someone," she said. "I'm just trying to stay alive."

The camp is stark but organized. A few items of clothing dry on a rope tied between trees. Ashes from last night's pork-chop dinner remain in a small charcoal grill. A metal mailbox is mounted on a pole stuck in the dirt.

The mailbox is a joke, Toevar said.

Toevar spends his days reading -- most recently, a hardback copy of John Grisham's The Chamber -- or shooting aluminum cans with a BB gun. He walks to the nearby Union Gospel Mission for a free lunch.

Last week, he dropped in to the Day Resource Center for a movie: Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector, which Toevar loved.

At night, he drinks cheap 40-ounce beers and plays dominoes under the perpetual glow of a nearby streetlight.

Toevar knows most of his neighbors.

"That's Gabby and his old lady down there," he said, pointing down the hill. "There was a young couple, too. The woman is pregnant. We know each other but most people are out here to be left alone."

The neighborhood rule is: "Never, ever go into someone's tent if they're not there."

Drug fiends are particularly meddlesome. About 25 feet from Toevar's camp is a highway overpass. A few nights ago, police officer D. Crim, who works in the area, found about 15 drug users huddled beneath it, smoking crack.

The ground is littered with empty pen casings, which addicts use as crack pipes.

"They take whatever money they come by and buy crack," Toevar said. "If they come over here drugged up and acting crazy, they better be ready to fight.

"I've been in a bunch of fights," Toevar said, holding up a scarred hand.

Toevar has a persistent deep cough. He says he has cancer.

Asked his prognosis, he said "The disease is ..." but struggled for the word.

"Terminal," his brother said.

"Yeah," Toevar said. "I'm dying out here."

Opting for the outdoors

When Toevar heads to the Union Gospel Mission for a lunch of roast beef, beans and potato salad, he is within walking distance of three overnight shelters: Union Gospel, the Salvation Army and the Presbyterian Night Shelter.

Most of the beds in Union Gospel and the Salvation Army are for people in transitional housing programs. The Presbyterian shelter is the city's only emergency shelter.

In Arlington, the Arlington Life Shelter houses about 70 people a night. Northeast Tarrant County doesn't have a shelter, and homeless people there often live in their cars or run-down hotels, coalition officials said.

When the Presbyterian shelter opened more than 20 years ago, about 20 people slept there. In the mid-1990s, 300 people was a busy night. In 2006, the Presbyterian shelter housed an average of 614 a night, up from less than 600 in 2005.

That's near capacity. Toevar, like many campers, could probably get a spot inside if he wanted.

Most campers don't.

"I stayed there for two days, and I caught so many cooties I had to get a hotel room and shower," said Charlie, a bearded 69-year-old man who has lived in camps for about 10 years. He declined to give his last name.

"They got too many people with sticky fingers down there," he said. "Turn your head, they'll steal everything you got. People everywhere."

During Wednesday's ice and snow storm, about 800 crammed into the Presbyterian shelter. Toevar boasts that he and his brother were among the few campers in his area who did not retreat inside a shelter. Instead, they hunkered down in their tents with blankets.

"It's worse in there when the weather is bad," Toevar said. "You're a sardine."

James Jones, 57, complained that homeless people staying in shelters "run the place." At the Presbyterian shelter, he said he was told he had to pay for one of the sleeping mats that were supposed to be free.

Jones said he used to camp until a blood clot in his leg drove him inside.

"I'd love to be back outside," said Jones, leaning on a crutch outside the shelter. "You got people trying to take advantage of you in there. They don't have enough people who work there, so they have other homeless people at the door."

Sonyia Hartwell, the shelter's executive director, said homeless residents help in food services, landscaping and door security. At the door, they are accompanied by a staff member and a uniformed Fort Worth police officer.

Jones' complaint may have been about a homeless guest trying to sell his or her mat, she said.

The shelter does the best job it can with the resources available, she said. But no matter the level of service, there is a segment of the homeless population that will always opt for the outdoors.

Some people don't like to follow minimal rules. For others, the sight of 200 to 300 people jostling to get into a shelter is oppressive and scary. For the mentally ill, the shelters stir their worst fears of "being locked up."

And many, she said, are independent spirits who simply like to sleep under the stars.

Health and safety risks

Charlie's camp sits along a creek near Interstate 30 just south of downtown Fort Worth. Pots and pans hang from nails driven into trees, as does a broom. He cuts kindling with an axe and boils water on a fire every morning for instant coffee.

He has fashioned a front porch to his tent out of a large, flat piece of wood. He won't allow a photographer to take a picture of it because he is afraid the city will bulldoze it.

He has a post office box where his Social Security check arrives every month. He used it to buy the jeans and flannel shirt he is wearing, food, Old Milwaukee beer and, last week, a new air mattress for his tent.

He stayed with a friend with a home in Granbury once, but couldn't sleep.

"Too quiet," he said, a grin spreading across his bright red cheeks. "I need trucks, sirens and helicopters."

There are ordinances against camping inside the city. But Crim, the neighborhood police officer, said it is more realistic for police to move out the campers who draw complaints. Move everyone and they would mill in the streets, causing more problems, he said.

"There's not enough places for them all to go," Crim said.

Camps can pose health and safety risks. Many campers leave human waste and trash behind, including hypodermic needles. The plastic casings of copper wire, which is stolen and sold for money, seem to litter the ground everywhere.

A handful of homicides have occurred in and around camps.

In November, a 61-year-old homeless man was fatally beaten by another homeless man who asked him for a cigarette. In 2005, a 56-year-old homeless woman was beaten to death while sleeping under a bridge.

In 2003, a homeless man was stabbed to death in a camp off North Main Street, not far from the Stockyards.

The camps draw wanted criminals looking to hide, Crim said. Officers spend hours looking in the bushes or peeking under blankets for those charged with serious crimes.

On the night of the homeless count, police and other law officers will accompany volunteers into any areas considered hazardous, said Otis Thornton, Fort Worth's homeless coordinator.

A year ago, a similar count was conducted but safety concerns kept counters out of many camps, he said.

The final tally was 4,208, but officials say it was surely low.

'We need a game plan'

On a chilly January morning, Thornton climbed into a van with Mayor Mike Moncrief and Councilwomen Wendy Davis and Kathleen Hicks.

Thornton has spent weeks wading through mud and weeds. He is listing the global-positioning-system coordinates of the homeless camps to prepare for the count.

He invited city leaders to accompany him for a glimpse at how the homeless live.

Moncrief, wearing gloves and a thick jacket, said the homeless problem is reaching a critical mass. "We need a game plan," he said.

Thornton took them to a campground off U.S. 287 in Hicks' council district in near southeast Fort Worth. They walked through a grass field, passing a man dozing under a makeshift shelter.

Startled, the middle-age Hispanic man climbed to his feet. He took a few steps backward.

"No problemos! No problemos!" Thornton called out. He handed the man a slip of paper that explained that volunteers would be counting the homeless. One side is in English; the other in Spanish.

According to last year's count, Hispanics are estimated to make up 11 percent of the homeless population.

Further into the tree line, the group comes upon a shack built next to a creek.

A small Mexican flag is mounted near a religious shrine made from a flat piece of wood and a bent piece of aluminum. Several votive candles sit inside.

"They probably work during the day, come back and light a candle in prayer," Thornton said.

At Toevar's camp, Toevar is surprised to see Moncrief and the city councilwomen standing outside his tent. Moncrief shook his hand, introduced himself and asked, "What services can the city provide to make your life better?"

Toevar shrugged and answered not unkindly, "Just leave me alone, I guess."

"At least you're honest," Moncrief said with a chuckle.

The group said goodbye and headed back to the van. Toevar stood outside his tent and watched them go.

"I mean, it's great that they want to help people," he said. "There are lot desperate people out here, you know. But once you're out for long enough, it just becomes life as you know it."

Staff writer Mike Lee contributed to this report, which contains information from the Star-Telegram archives.

IN THE KNOW

Homeless count

The Tarrant County Homeless Coalition is looking for more than 500 volunteers to help count the homeless on Thursday, from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. Volunteers, who must be 18 or older, will undergo brief training exercises. Police or other law enforcement officers will accompany volunteers into homeless camps. To volunteer, go to www.TCHCoalition.org or call 817-850-7940.

2006 survey

During last year's count, volunteers asked the homeless about their No. 1 reason for remaining homeless:

No job -- 27 percent

Lack of affordable housing -- 14 percent

Substance abuse -- 13 percent

Domestic violence -- 11 percent

Divorce -- 10 percent

Personal or family illness -- 8 percent

Physical disability -- 4 percent

Mental illness -- 3 percent

SOURCE: Tarrant County Homeless Coalition