How one Washington county is making progress on homelessness

Editor’s note: This story is part of NWPB’s efforts to report not just on problems, but on how our communities are seeking solutions. Want to see more stories like this? Let us know at news@nwpb.org. 

In a railroad yard in Walla Walla, Matthew Cate climbed nimbly over large chunks of scrap metal and disappeared into an abandoned rail car. He slid into a sideways bathroom stall, plopping onto the twin mattress within. His bright paintings covered the enclosure’s walls. 

“You can tell I’ve been here because of all the art,” he said. “It’s just the perfect little cubby — no wind gets in.” 

Cate, who now resides at a local shelter, spent around five years living in this bathroom stall. During the winter, he stayed warm by burning hand sanitizer inside a tin can. 

Cate stands in front of the rail car where he used to live. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

All told, Cate has been homeless for over a decade. But that could soon change. 

In the last fiscal year, Walla Walla County found permanent housing for 74% of the people who exited its homeless services system, according to the Washington Department of Commerce. That’s nearly twice the rate of the state as a whole. The key to Walla Walla’s success, many providers said, has been its willingness to break down silos.

“The main thing that is working in Walla Walla’s approach to homelessness is the collaboration that exists amongst agencies, both public and private,” said Tim Meliah, director of Catholic Charities Walla Walla. “I think that’s unique to our community, but I think it’s a really important piece.”

Even in Walla Walla, however, it hasn’t always been this way. 

“ We had kind of a disjointed system,” said Meghan DeBolt, who used to work for the county. She’s now with the nonprofit Blue Mountain Action Council. “I think before, it was kind of like nobody really knew what lane they were in. Everybody was trying to do all the things.” 

‘Walls coming down’

It was March 2020, and the COVID-19 pandemic was heating up. 

Sam Jackle, who works in human services for Walla Walla County, decided to gather all of the area’s shelter providers for an in-person meeting. In a conference room with big windows, they shared coffee and pastries, without masks and without much understanding of the scale of the crisis ahead. 

The next week, the meetings moved online. Soon after, Walla Walla’s city manager and representatives from the local hospital started joining, too. The group shared resources and best practices, highs and lows — for three years straight. 

“Everybody was strained and stressed out,” Meliah said. “But when we built that community together, that allowed us to continue to move forward in our work.” 

In 2022, the group reunited in person at a local cafe. “It was this amazing moment,” Meliah recalled. “It was kind of emotional.” 

They had gotten through the worst of the pandemic — together. 

“Those weekly meetings really helped to contribute to a little bit of a culture shift,” Jackle said. “We went from folks focusing on their own operations and programs to folks coming together and trying to coordinate services.” 

A dog sits outside one of the huts at Walla Walla’s low-barrier shelter. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

Never before had the shelter providers met regularly with each other. Participants said it transformed the landscape from one of competition — where each organization was pitted against each other in a fight for funding — to one of collaboration. 

“That really changed the game,” said Jordan Green, executive director at the Walla Walla Alliance for the Homeless. “We stopped trying to solve every problem internally.” Instead, Green said, the organizations began “recognizing each other for the strengths we each have.”  

They figured out how to smartly divide federal emergency housing funding. They shared the names of landlords who were willing to work with clients with criminal records or poor credit. They passed around templates for letters they sent to potential property management companies. 

“There aren’t enough resources in homeless services, and so that scarcity mindset causes people to want to keep things close to the vest,” Jackle said. “What we saw was a lot of the walls coming down.” 

Shelter without barriers

Walla Walla’s low-barrier homeless shelter, known as “camp” to those who live there, sits upon a 1.5-acre lot on the outskirts of town, near a concrete plant and a truck repair shop. There are views of the Blue Mountains in one direction, and the Washington State Penitentiary in another. 

Inside the chain link fence, a gravel-covered open area is bordered by gray and white huts. The huts are shaped like horseshoes, making them look like caravans of covered wagons ready to head west. (The hut design is actually known as “Conestoga,” for its resemblance to the Conestoga wagons of centuries past.)

Each one has a small porch, a lockable door, a window and a bed. They don’t have electricity, but they are insulated. 

Walla Walla’s low-barrier shelter is a key component of the region’s fight against homelessness. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

Residents sit on stoops or in a picnic area. Others hop on bikes or the bus to get to their jobs in town. Dogs laze in the sun. Altogether, the shelter houses around 60 people in individual huts, prefab units and overflow housing. Also on-site are modular offices, shared showers and a common room that’s open day and night. 

The shelter is low barrier, which means that residents don’t need to be sober or participate in any educational or religious programming. They can also live with their pets or partners — rarities in the shelter world. 

Ricky Aguilar believes this shelter is another crucial element of the region’s fight against homelessness. He’s a peer support specialist for the Walla Walla Alliance for the Homeless, the nonprofit contracted by the city to run the shelter. 

“If you don’t have a low-barrier shelter where folks can come and they’re dealing with substance use disorder or mental health or both,” Aguilar said, “how are they ever going to get help?” 

Aguilar experienced homelessness in this area in the early 2000s. He wishes something like the current shelter had been available. 

“I always tell these guys they’re lucky,” Aguilar said. “It’s always getting better every year. I think we’re learning and growing. I think we kind of are the forefront in Washington state for our homeless folks.” 

The shelter opened in 2017, at night only. It became a 24/7 operation in 2020. That was another turning point, said Green, the Alliance’s executive director — because people were able to access peer support where they lived. 

Previously, people experiencing homelessness could only meet peer support specialists at City Hall on certain days. About 10% to 15% of the homeless population participated. According to Green, when the shelter began opening during the day with peer support specialists on-site, participation skyrocketed to 70% to 75% of the population. 

“We’re able to get 35 to 40 people a year moved out of camp and into a better situation, which would never have been possible when it was evenings only,” Green said.

The shelter’s been so successful that it’s hosted visitors from other municipalities who want to emulate it, including Moses Lake, Yakima and Clarkston. Two cities in Oregon, Hermiston and Sweet Home, have already opened shelters modeled after Walla Walla’s. 

As with everything else, Green said partnerships — especially between public and private agencies — have been key.

“The single biggest factor in making this work is the collaboration between local government and a nonprofit,” Green said. “The city has always taken such a direct approach to being a part of the solution.”

Prefab units at the low-barrier shelter serve as transitional housing for those hoping to exit homelessness. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

The city of Walla Walla, for example, used a land swap to obtain the land where the shelter sits. Because the city owns the land, the nonprofit doesn’t need to pay a mortgage, utility bills or property taxes. Last year, the City Council unanimously approved the purchase of an adjacent lot so the shelter can eventually expand. And the county recently alerted the shelter to a grant; it applied with the city and got funding for 10 more huts, a dog run and a covered picnic area.

“That’s why it’s been such a unique thing is it’s not just a couple of service providers, it is people from kind of all branches that touch this,” Green said. 

The road ahead

Walla Walla is small and tight-knit — there are about 61,000 people in the whole county. Money goes farther here than on the west side of the state. There’s also a large population of retirees who can give time and money to causes they care about. 

But the region’s focus on collaboration could likely work anywhere. A similar approach has had success in Houston, the fourth-largest city in the U.S.

That said, homelessness is far from solved here. In recent years, the number of people experiencing homelessness has risen, mirroring the state and nation as a whole. 

And providers fear the road ahead will be even rockier. The national political scene and the state budget deficit have put many funding streams at risk. Document recording fees for real estate transactions, which fund a significant portion of homeless services in Washington, are also coming up short.

In a recent newsletter discussing changes at the federal level, the Washington Department of Commerce said, “Various memos have directed agencies to cease grant-making and distribution of funds. This extends to the Department of Housing and Urban Development, a key partner and a large funder of the homeless crisis response in Washington state.” 

But Jackle believes that the area’s history of synergism will help it weather whatever lies ahead. “It puts us in a much stronger position to navigate the uncertainty of the homeless housing system and funding landscape today,” she said.  

Cate, who’s been homeless for over a decade, may soon be housed. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

Cate moved from the rail car to the low-barrier shelter around two years ago. He started in one of the huts and eventually moved into a transitional unit. 

On a recent Monday, he and Aguilar parked in front of an old gray house near the center of town. Cate had slicked-back hair and a nervous energy as he followed the property manager up the stairs. 

They soon turned into a small apartment with brand new floors and tall windows. Cate zoomed through the unit, taking in the space that could become his own. 

“I’m totally interested, so whatever we gotta do,” he said. 

“I think you already did,” Aguilar replied.  

After more than 10 years of homelessness, Cate never thought he’d get permanent housing. But he recently completed a course for people exiting homelessness and obtained a housing voucher. If everything works out, he’ll have a brand-new set of keys soon. 

“It’s just surreal,” Cate said. “These people are willing to step with you and work with you. It’s old school love, you know. It’s just, you can’t find that hardly anymore.”