Volunteers search area to count homeless

Jan. 29—ASHLAND — Iesha Elam and I are walking through the brush behind Longhorn Steak House a little after midnight on Wednesday.

The breeze is picking up, but the rains haven't come in yet. Elam is holding a cell phone with the flashlight on as I peep over some old foundations to see if anyone is sleeping on the other side.

It's just another mattress, some clothing strewn about. About 20 feet away, we find a suitcase filled with empty aluminum cans.

Up a slight grade, where the property abuts a steep drop off into a creek, the flashlight catches the reflection of some shiny paracord. In the shadows, it's evident there's a tent.

"Hello?" Elam says. "Hello? We're with the Shelter of Hope. Would you like a care package?"

She goes silent, awaiting a response. All we can hear is the wind rustling the brush, the occasional car gliding down U.S. 23.

"I have a cigarette I can spare," I say.

Still nothing.

We move on, finding makeshift fire rings, buggies, tarps, another tent. We get the same thing — silence.

On Wednesday, Jan. 25, nationwide, people from all walks of life are doing the same, from the boondocks of rural Carolina to Skid Row in Los Angeles, which boasts a population of more than quadruple that of Catlettsburg.

The annual Homeless Count is a one-night snapshot of the homeless population throughout the country, typically done in either January or February. The counts, which collects relevant statistical data such as gender, age, veteran status and reasons for why someone is unhoused, are submitted to the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

The numbers collected through the survey determine the federal dollars allocated through HUD to provide resources for those in need. It's imperfect — only those living on the streets or in emergency shelters are counted. Couch surfers or folks lucky enough to get into a hotel room for the night aren't counted, despite being functionally homeless.

"This is a really good spot for folks," Elam said. "These foundations are good shelter. It's a good wind block."

And she's right — all one would need to do is weight a tarp down with some rocks at the top of the foundation and stake it in the ground at the bottom, creating a lean-to.

Elam should know — she's been homeless herself, after a decade-long struggle with substance abuse. The colder the nights, the harder it is to find folks, she said.

"You have to stay moving when it's cold outside," she said. "That's the worst part of it. If you're moving, you can stay warm. I remember walking all night just to keep warm."

Back in February 2021, Elam said she survived the Great Ice Storm inside an abandoned trailer out in Carter County, with no heat or electricity. That experience led to her getting clean and now pursuing a social work degree at ACTC and working at The Shelter of Hope.

"I realized I just couldn't do this anymore," she said. "That's been 16 months ago."

The shelter counts, like at the Salvation Army or Safe Harbor, are the easy numbers to pin down. Most of the data is already in the system due to the check-in process, so all they needed to do was shift the data over to the K-Count system, Kentucky's version of the homeless count.

What Shelter of Hope was undertaking Wednesday evening was the rough-sleeper category; those sleeping in the elements.

At around 9 p.m. Wednesday, volunteers gathered in a church parking lot on Winchester Avenue to receive their assigned areas. It's an eclectic mix of social work students needing hours, workers from the Shelter of Hope and other non-profits, a couple of professors, some concerned citizens, the mayor of Ashland and a curious reporter.

The care packages are divided out and off they go — one group to Carter County, another to Lawrence, Elliott, Greenup. And three groups stay back in Ashland, which, statistically speaking, is going to have the most.

Mayor Matt Perkins and a fellow from the housing authority were lucky straight away — within 10 minutes, they already collected a survey. Sticking to the flood walls, which is home to a large shanty town called "the bird house," they eventually collect 22 surveys before the night's called at 2 a.m.

I hop into Elam's car, along with another Shelter of Hope employee named Hannah and social work student named Stephanie.

Our first stop is The Neighborhood, where we find a man picking through a dumpster.

Along the loading dock, there's mounds of clothes and blankets and bags. As Elam administers the survey, one of the bags move.

It's a woman, wrapped up tight. She sits up and watches Elam interviewing the man.

Then the woman pulls out a large knife and begins to wave it around, stabbing it in the air.

Before Elam makes her way over, Hannah calls her to the car.

"Hey, that lady has a knife," Hannah said.

Elam looks at the lady for a second.

"Oh that's, shoot, what's her name? I know her," Elam said.

After a couple minutes of small talk with the woman, Elam asks me for a cigarette — the woman needs one.

All told, four people were interviewed along the dock — care packages were handed out accordingly.

We tried a few more places, but no luck — the camp behind Longhorn was a bust, as were some other known encampments.

The weather was probably a contributing factor; it's not uncommon for folks to go in on a room at the Bluegrass Inn or to get a relative to let them stay on a couch for the night, Elam said.

But the heat didn't help, either, she said — it seemed like everywhere Elam went in downtown, there was a cop patrolling. In the world of homelessness, cops aren't considered friends.

"People in this position are used to having a cop come up to them and tell them to move on, so whenever they see one, they hide," she said. "This isn't helping at all."

As 2 a.m. approached and the teams began calling it a night, we drove up some alleys searching for people.

We came across one man, who was walking with a bag and a cigarette in his mouth.

The man said he'd been released from prison a few months ago and he'd been on the streets since. When asked for his birthday, it was revealed it was Wednesday, Jan. 25.

"Happy birthday," Elam said.

"Thanks," the man said. "You're the first person who's said that to me all day."

It'll be a while before the numbers are crunched, but judging by what the teams reported early Thursday morning at the rendezvous spot, the count's going to shake out to roughly what 2022 — 38 out of 110 were listed as unsheltered last year.

(606) 326-2653 — henry@dailyindependent.com