‘It’s not a safe place for us’: Homeless camp along Mill Plain sound wall sparks fear, anger in neighbors

“The people who are living in tents don’t want to be right in front of somebody’s home as much as the people living in the homes don’t want people camping right in front of the house. Until we have enough shelter capacity or an alternative space to be, this is kind of what we’re left with,” said Jamie Spinelli, the city’s homeless response manager.

A growing issue

Maia Quenson, 33, moved to her home along the sound wall five years ago, drawn by the promise of a spacious backyard where she envisioned her daughter playing.

Initially, the land behind the wall in her backyard was occasionally occupied by a tent or two. But over the past year, the situation has grown out of control, she said.

Now, Quenson’s family rarely uses the backyard.

She hears people screaming, fighting, swearing, blasting lewd music and having sex. Vile and Quenson have installed security cameras. Both are struggling with the odors of rotting food and human waste that come from the camp, which have worsened in the summer heat.

“(The sound wall) is not a barrier,” Quenson said. “They’ve been able to throw needles into our yard so it’s not safe. I found a needle in our yard that was a foot away from my daughter’s swing. I just want her to have a safe place, but it’s not a safe place for us at all.”

In November, the city declared homelessness to be a civil emergency, which enabled officials to close areas to camping where it poses a risk to public health and safety and fast-track projects to solve the issue. The city used the emergency declaration to clear camps on West 16th Street and underneath the Mill Plain bridge. Those campers flocked to the sound wall.

Both Quenson and Vile are considering selling their homes but are worried the camp has lowered their property values. (Although he hasn’t researched property values along the sound wall, Mike Lamb, a longtime Clark County broker with Windermere Stellar, said anything that disturbs a neighborhood can be expected to impact home values if the problem continues.)

City taking action

Quenson and Vile said they’ve questioned the city many times about why the homeless campers are allowed to stay there. They’re worried the city will let people camp along the wall permanently.

Closing the site, however, could have a ripple effect.

“If we expand the area where there’s prohibition of camping, those individuals go somewhere,” Holmes said. “And there are a number of areas throughout the city where we have encampments. There is some constituency that is either negatively impacted or would argue for closure of those encampments.”

The city in the past has tried removing people from camps near downtown.

“What they’re asking for has been done and (homelessness) ended up just filtering out, literally, into the residential neighborhood. … If we banned camping just in that one area, I guarantee you, people will move to the other side of that wall,” Spinelli said.

It’s also easier for outreach workers to connect with homeless campers about housing and recovery resources if they stay in one spot. Spinelli said she can recall at least three people who have been housed from the sound-wall camp in the past six months.

The city sweeps through every other week or so to clear trash and human waste from the sound-wall camp. Although costs vary, Spinelli estimates homeless camp cleanups average $3,000 to $4,000 per instance. The city tackles the sound-wall camp at the same time it cleans up another camp near the Share House Men’s Shelter.

Trash and outreach services visit the sound wall camp daily, which costs an additional $3,000 per week in staff time, equipment, supplies and dump fees, Spinelli said.

The sound-wall camp produces 1 ton of solid waste every other day, she said. That’s the same weight as two grand pianos.

Campers

People camping along the wall say they don’t know where they’ll go if the city closes the camp. Brandy Rowan, 51, has lived in the camp for the past year. Although the camp can get “pretty rowdy,” with loud fights and music, she said not everyone there is like that.

“Maybe if they put us in housing, we wouldn’t have these problems,” she said.

Rowan, one of the first people to camp along the wall, said she’s stayed in the camp because of the friends she’s made there and the outreach and trash removal services the city provides. She’s been trying to get into housing for years, she said.

People in the camp, including Rowan, are forced to use buckets for bathrooms because there’s nowhere to place portable toilets.

Rowan said many people in the camp have weapons, including guns and knives, but they only use them to protect their possessions from thieves.

Brad Torson, 64, who said he has been homeless for about two months, chose the sound-wall camp because a friend lived there. It’s near a food pantry, as well as homeless service organizations Share House and Open House Ministries. If he had to move from the area, he’d probably move to an already established camp but isn’t sure which one yet.

“We don’t have a lot of other places to go,” Torson said.

Place to go

Quenson and Vile said city officials told them the city can’t move people simply for camping if there aren’t enough shelter beds.

That policy stems from a Grants Pass, Ore., court case that prevented cities from enforcing camping ordinances when no shelter space was available. In June, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that decision, once again enabling cities to enforce camping bans. Despite that ruling, Vancouver officials have said they do not plan to change the city’s policy on camp removals.

Vancouver hardly ever has shelter beds available, but the city plans to open a 150-bed homeless shelter next year in the Van Mall neighborhood. Even that won’t provide enough shelter beds for everyone who needs them. An estimated 500 to 600 people are currently living outdoors within Vancouver city limits.

Vile said she feels like homelessness is more controlled in other areas.

“They’re only ever going to be pushed into neighborhoods where people don’t have as much money,” Vile said. “Not that this is a poor neighborhood by any means, but if this was a really wealthy neighborhood, then this would not be happening.”

The median household income in that area is $51,000, compared with $82,467 citywide, according to 2022 data from the U.S. Census Bureau.

If Vile sells her house, she’ll move outside Vancouver, she said.

“I’m not blaming (the campers). I want them to have a place to go. I just don’t want them to have a place to go that’s in a neighborhood where there’s children and people who have worked really hard to own their homes,” Vile said.