Richard Gilbert stood near the main security desk at Nickelsville in the mid-morning sunlight and counted to 17.
That’s how many times the embattled homeless camp has moved since it began Sept. 22, 2008, when a group of homeless people and their allies first occupied city-owned land at the corner of West Marginal Way Southwest and Highland Park Way Southwest.
Gilbert showed up that day, approached a berm of land in this industrial section of West Seattle — and caught his breath.
“I stood there in disbelief and seen all these tents,” Gilbert recalled. He settled in.
Since then, the camp has relocated 17 times. Gilbert participated in every move.
“I know ‘em all by heart,” Gilbert, the self-proclaimed camp historian, said.
As he recited past locations — Daybreak Star Cultural Center in Discovery Park, a couple of church parking lots in the University District, private property in Skyway — current Nickelsville residents went about their lives.
A man climbed a ladder so he could stretch a tarp from the top of a wooden shack. A twentysomething woman cradled a puppy as she walked between rows of tarp-covered tents, her Nikes shuffling through wood chips spread on the dusty ground. A man sat on a raised platform, his tent pitched behind him and flipped through a children’s book.
A ponytailed young woman discovered the hole a rat had chewed through a tarp, which provided the rodent an entryway into her tent. A thin, older man wearing a propeller-topped beanie and a neck brace peeked among donated cans of green beans and frijoles refritos in the camp’s food structure. A young man with flowing blond hair stepped out of one of four Porta-Potties, the door slapping shut behind him as he washed his hands at a sink powered by a foot pedal.
Just another day for the 100 or so people who live at Nickelsville.
But a handful of Nickelodeons, as residents are often called, acknowledged the camp hasn’t always seemed so calm.
“There are a lot of issues going on here,” Jonah Hamilton, 16, said.
The public got wind of some of those issues in mid-March, when Nickelodeons told police that camper safety was at “grave risk” due to meth dealers living in Nickelsville. Former campers harassed and threatened residents, sometimes with weapons.
“It kind of got out of control before people figured out something,” Trace De Garmo, co-head of camp security, said.
Nickelodeons asked for more police protection, but security concerns were only part of the problem. Nature also took its toll.
Last fall, a plague of rats spread throughout the camp. King County’s public health department had to step in to offer recommendations for food control and pet food storage. Then the winter brought heavy rains, and Nickelodeons contended with rampant flooding they said turned the soil into a mud pit.
These conditions were harder to bear because the campers lack drinking water, sewer service and electricity.
“Nobody should have to live like this,” Gilbert, 52, said.
Yet Nickelodeons have chosen this triangular patch of land near the contaminated Duwamish Waterway not once, but twice. Gilbert said Nickelsville’s 17th move, on May 13, 2011, brought residents back to the camp’s West Seattle birthplace.
Next week, the camp will mark its second anniversary here. But for many Nickelodeons May 13 won’t be cause for celebration. Outside forces are putting pressure on Nickelsville to move — again.
A neighborhood group called the Highland Park Action Committee (HPAC) has asked Mayor Mike McGinn, his staff and the city council to set a mid-June move-out date for Nickelsville. If the city doesn’t respond to the request, the group has threatened legal action.
A private property owner whose warehouse abuts Nickelsville has filed a $1.65 million claim against the city, saying the encampment is illegal and adversely affects his property value. He wants the city to find Nickelodeons a new home.
And Food Lifeline, a nonprofit geared toward ending hunger in Western Washington, is in conversation with the city, the state and the aforementioned property owner to use the Nickelsville site and adjacent area for a food distribution center. The organization would like to begin construction this fall.
Neighbors express frustration over what they view as a lack of governmental leadership on the issue. Mayor Mike McGinn failed to respond to repeated requests for comment for this story.
Only councilmember Nick Licata seems to be responsive to concerns about problems in and around homeless encampments. Meanwhile, Nickelodeons confront rumors they could be cleared from the parcel of land at any moment.
Camp residents, neighbors and city officials are wrestling to answer a question that has implications for hundreds of people: What to do about Nickelsville?
First disappointment, then a solution?
Carolyn Stauffer lives roughly a mile from Nickelsville, but for the past few months, she said she’s thought about the camp every day.
Stauffer serves as co-chair of HPAC, the neighborhood group that asked the city to impose a late spring move-out. She said the motivation for group members to call for Nickelsville to be cleared was not because they have anything against the campers.
HPAC was instead galvanized by the camp’s recent security issues. The group wants the city to take responsibility for the homeless people who live on city-owned land.
“It’s been eye-opening to see how little the city has done,” she said.
As an example, she pointed to what she deemed a lack of response to an April 2
letter HPAC sent the mayor, city council and other officials. The letter stated the city has been “ignoring our repeated pleas for political leadership” and has “taken advantage of our neighborhood” by allowing Nickelsville to occupy the site for two years.
HPAC requested the city move campers no later than June 13 and that “every measure possible be taken to ensure that each person at the encampment is offered shelter or housing.” The group represents the Riverview and Highland Park neighborhoods, which sit northwest and southwest, respectively, of Nickelsville.
Stauffer said the only official reply to the letter by late April was an email from Councilmember Richard Conlin: “I appreciate the concerns and problems that you face and think your suggested remedy makes sense. Encampments are inherently unstable and are not part of getting people back into housing and full participation in the community.”
Stauffer said she will meet with the mayor sometime this week.
Councilmember Nick Licata told Real Change on May 2 that he plans to present the council with legislative options that may help Nickelsville by the end of the month.
“We need to identify a procedure or process that will allow an encampment to exist somewhere,” Licata said.
He said he’s been in conversation with the mayor’s office, which supports exploring alternatives. But Licata couldn’t say what those options might be.
Licata said that he doesn’t think any solution will please everyone, but the time has come for compromise.
“We just can’t continue punting the ball down the street,” Licata said.
Licata also said he didn’t know how his proposed legislation would influence a requested mid-June move-out date for Nickelsville. In the two years the camp has been there, the city has done little.
“Some would say that’s benign neglect or a solution that’s not a solution,” Licata said.
Unsafe and insecure
Trace De Garmo, co-head of security at Nickelsville, said wherever the camp goes, he intends to follow.
As he paused en route to the camp’s east side, he acknowledged that, in part, neighbors may be pushing them out due to some recent problems with security. The camp’s current security plan lists 17 rules, including prohibitions on alcohol, controlled substances without a prescription, violent behavior, aggressive words and weapons. Nickelsville maintains a 24-hour security detail, and each resident must pull several three-hour security shifts a week.
Over the years, Nickelodeons have sought police assistance for numerous complaints, including recent allegations that some residents were dealing meth. In March when one of the former campers brandished a machete at a group of residents, including De Garmo, Nickelodeons called police multiple times.
Nickelodeons say police didn’t stop former campers, some of whom live in a nearby greenbelt, from stealing water, firewood, blankets, food and tents. In response, camp leadership took the situation in hand. For a day in late March camp leaders removed the Porta-Potties as a way to punish some campers who had been barred but refused to leave.
Nickelodeons felt police were dismissive of their complaints. They sent a March 19 letter to then Seattle Police Chief John Diaz and other officers.
“Our rights — as Citizens, as a community, and as an organization — to police protection from unlawful acts of criminals is being ignored by your department,” the letter stated.
After the letter was made public, Mayor McGinn released a two-sentence statement that said, in part, “The immediate next step is to increase our police presence through the use of directed patrols from the Southwest Precinct.”
De Garmo said because residents don’t own the property, they can’t legally prohibit anyone from being in the camp. They can only take action when someone commits a crime.
City officials have said since the city, not Nickelsville, owns the land, Nickelodeons are essentially squatters.
The perfect answer
It’s not just Nickelodeons who are in limbo.
Greg Jacobsen, owner of Sea-Way Marine, said two issues drove him to file a claim against the city to move the camp: a desire to expand his business and disappointment in his hometown.
A hidden pathway, strewn with a heap of soiled clothes, food scraps and large soda cups from a convenience store, connects the camp and Jacobsen’s land, just south of Nickelsville, where he stores inventory for his marine and boat parts business.
Jacobsen has owned the parcel at 7126 W. Marginal Way SW for more than a decade and, in an effort to expand his business, he investigated selling it to buy more land elsewhere. While his current 17,000 sq. ft. property was valued at $1.65 million, Jacobsen said his real estate agent told him that with the encampment next door, the property would sell for much less.
Because he believes the camp’s presence depreciates his property value, Jacobsen filed a claim against the city of Seattle.
“If the city wants to keep them there, it should make me whole,” he said.
Jacobsen said he doesn’t want it to come across that he’s out to get Nickelsville. He supports the camp, he said, and his employees have even donated wood for fire and pallets to help shore up tents and platforms.
But Jacobsen said that Nickelsville is on the property illegally, and the city has allowed the camp to break industrial zoning laws to his detriment. The city should remove the illegal encampment, he said.
That would make way for a legal use of the land that Jacobsen supports: turning it into a food distribution site for Food Lifeline.
The nonprofit contacted him in November 2012, he said, to ask if he’d sell his property. He was moved by Food Lifeline’s efforts to end hunger. Jacobsen said he told the group he’d sell his property for less than market rate.
“I think that’s a perfect answer,” he said.
Three property owners have a stake in the entire parcel: the city, the state and Jacobsen. Linda Nageotte, president of Food Lifeline, said the nonprofit is trying to acquire not only the land where Nickelodeons live but contiguous property as well, for a total of 10 acres.
Nageotte said the group had hoped to hear from the city and state by late March whether the sale would be a go, but Food Lifeline is still waiting for replies.
Councilmember Nick Licata said his proposal may allow Food Lifeline to acquire the city-owned portion of the site.
The state department of transportation owns the bulk of the parcel, Nageotte said, and state representatives indicated to her earlier that an answer may come at the end of the legislative session. The state legislature will begin a two-week extended session on May 13.
“We’re going to continue moving forward in good faith that this project is going to happen,” she said.
She said Food Lifeline investigated many sites in the region, and West Marginal Way was the first choice. Nageotte said the nonprofit knows that acquiring the land would displace Nickelsville.
“[The residents] were very concerned about having a safe place to stay,” she said. “We’re concerned, too.”
Rat city
Several hundred yards from the hidden path to Jacobsen’s land, Richard Gilbert, Nickelsville’s resident historian, soaked up the sun’s rays as he sat in a plastic chair. Nearby stood an animal pen, partially constructed out of pallets, that housed two goats named Richard and Sally.
“They’re mascots,” Gilbert said.
Gilbert said he didn’t know what would happen to the goats when Nickelsville moved. But there were animals he and everyone else hoped to leave behind: rats.
He said the rat infestation that plagued the camp last year has lessened over time, with the help of the public health department. Over the course of six months, health officials created three plans, with recommendations like removing rodent droppings with a bleach-water rinse. They also set out traps and bait boxes to catch rodents.
“But we haven’t found a lot of dead rats yet,” Gilbert said.
As Gilbert talked about perceived lack of city leadership and how an on-site generator supplies enough power to charge laptops and phones, a rat scuttled on top of a pallet at the goat pen’s entrance. The rodent stopped, appearing frozen, then began to cough, making a sound similar to a cat preparing to hack up a fur ball.
Gilbert didn’t notice the rat until moments later, when it jumped off the pallet and ran for a woodpile partially covered by an orange tarp. He watched it disappear beneath the tarp’s shadow.
“It’s unusual to see one out this early,” Gilbert said. He speculated that rats were venturing into daylight because they’d been poisoned. Then Gilbert picked up the conversation where he left off.
Relocation to a new site could prove worrisome, Gilbert said, because a move could destroy camp unity. It could also force residents back on the streets, away from the relative safety of the camp.
While he said that he knows there’s a push for more shelter beds, he said that’s not what would help most homeless people, including Nickelodeons.
“We just need the doors of opportunity to open up,” he said.
Tasty greens and stinky weed
Sarah Weaver said she found an opportunity at Nickelsville, so she moved in.
Seated in the small shack that serves as the camp’s main security booth, Weaver said she’d shown up a few weeks ago with her 16-year-old boyfriend, Jonah Hamilton. She and Hamilton both battled drug addictions, she said, and had been sleeping on the streets for months by the time they wound up at Nickelsville. Weaver was 17 when they arrived.
The camp doesn’t allow minors to live there unless they’re part of a family that has at least one legal adult. Because both Weaver and Hamilton were under 18, by rights, the camp should have been denied them a spot, but they were let in anyway.
“They just didn’t want to turn us down,” the ponytailed Weaver said of residents.
Now that she’s 18, Weaver and Hamilton are here legally.
But legal lines can blur easily at Nickelsville.
When the camp began, the only residents allowed to smoke pot were those with a medical marijuana card. They lit up in Camp Med. After voters legalized possession of up to one ounce of pot for residents 21 and over, the camp loosened its rules on who could smoke, but not where they could smoke. Still pot can be found in unlikely places.
In the security booth, Weaver reached for the visitor sign-in log, and her hand passed a glass pipe on a shelf. The pipe’s bowl was filled with marijuana but she didn’t notice the pipe.
As Weaver flipped through the pages of the log, Hamilton, her boyfriend, approached the booth carrying two plates weighed down with mac’n’cheese and salad. Operation Sack Lunch provides campers with a mid-day meal.
Hamilton shoved forkfuls of salad in his mouth as he listened to Weaver describe how their past drug use led them both to be homeless.
“I’ve gotten drugs here before,” Hamilton said. “Not marijuana; let’s just leave it at that.”
Weaver tasted the mac’n’cheese. “I’d say for once it’s great,” she said. “But I’m not picky.”
“When you’re homeless, you can’t be,” Hamilton said, then offered Weaver some zucchini.
While they ate, a young man with a bike stationed himself outside the security booth. Another man joined them. Then a third. One reached under the security desk, his hand bypassing the pot-filled glass pipe.
Instead, he grabbed a balled-up paper towel, then, with his other hand, pulled a different glass pipe out of pocket. He loaded the pipe.
“It’s stink,” he said, using a euphemism for aromatic marijuana.
One of the other men gave him a lighter. Each took a hit, then passed the pipe. One coughed. Smoke wafted around their heads. The earthy perfume of pot filled the air.
While the smokers partook, a woman walked past them and approached the sign-in desk. She was a visitor. Weaver signed her in, never mentioning the pot smoke billowing behind the woman.
The smokers left. One of them ran to catch a bus. Hamilton took over the security detail.
He said that while he was happy the camp took him in, he didn’t care for some of the residents. If the camp moved, it might mean he could leave behind a certain crowd.
“There are lying, deceiving assholes who steal from people,” Hamilton said.
While no other resident would agree with Hamilton on the record, some indicated the worst liars and thieves no longer lived in the camp. To find them, Nickelodeons said you only had to leave Nickelsville and head to the greenbelt.
Friendly neighbors
The rear entrance to Nickelsville borders West Marginal Way Southwest. Directly across the street, behind a plumbing supply business, a hill gives way to the greenbelt.
A path snakes its way south through the trees, the foot trail interrupted by piles of trash. One pile, larger than a king-sized mattress, contained soda bottles, socks and a laminated cover of “The Illustrated Kama Sutra” from the Burien branch of the King County Library.
A set of steps carved out of the earth led higher up the hill. Down at street level sat a waste treatment plant. Further uphill and over a rise stood a series of tents, each sheltered by tarps tied to trees.
Dean Williamson sat in a chair in front of the foremost tent. Next to him, dirty dishes soaked in a pot of putrid-looking water heated by a smoky wood fire.
Williamson, 47, said he’d lived in Nickelsville for more than 18 months until late March, when he was kicked out.
“But I went out for the right reason,” he said.
He said he had obstructed the eviction of a woman who didn’t deserve to be kicked out.
He confronted campers “in a peaceful standoff,” he said. Then he said he was barred from Nickelsville.
In retaliation, Williamson said he stole jugs of water and the tent behind him. He felt no remorse in taking the tent, since it was donated to Nickelsville for homeless people to use, and he was homeless too.
“Without shelter, we die,” he said.
But according to documents from the King County Courthouse, the “peaceful standoff” was actually dangerous.
Co-security head Trace De Garmo and another Nickelodeon filed anti-harassment orders against Williamson in late March. Both orders state that after camp leaders barred Williamson from the camp, he returned to threaten campers, brandishing a machete.
According to anti-harassment orders, Williamson must stay more than 100 feet from the Nickelodeons who filed the papers as well as from the camp.
As sunlight dappled the linden and maple leaves behind him, Williamson said six or so people lived in the greenbelt. The majority had been kicked out of Nickelsville. Some of them, like a few Nickelodeons, also sell meth, he alleged.
While the greenbelt had a violent reputation, he said, it was unearned. Besides, he said his fellow greenbelters had instituted a policy of no longer taking items from Nickelsville. To ensure better relations, he said he’d also crafted a good-neighbor policy.
Nickelsville rules state that current residents must be a mile away from the camp before they can talk to former campers who’ve been barred from the encampment. Williamson said that rule should be scrapped in favor of his policy, which would allow people living in the greenbelt to interact with Nickelodeons. He also wants greenbelters to help future campers who get booted out of Nickelsville.
“We’ve got big hearts,” he said.
Keeping the faith
Back at Nickelsville, evening approached. The air turned cool, and a windmill handcrafted from the frame of a bike wheel and pieces of metal cans caught the fading sunlight.
Nickelsville historian Richard Gilbert watched as, yards away, people gathered around a fire.
“It’s going to be another cold night,” he said.
Gilbert was prepared: He lived in one of the camp’s 16 housing structures, small shacks with locked doors reserved for Nickelodeons who’d been at the camp the longest. Inside his structure, a wool blanket covered his bed.
He said he still had no idea where residents would find land, preferably with water, sewer and electricity. He wondered aloud if such a place might exist on Vashon Island.
“Maybe one day I’ll make enough money to go over there,” he said.
Still, he was waiting for the city council to find a site by the upcoming mid-June deadline that was big enough to support Nickelodeons.
“Until we can find that site, we can’t go anywhere,” said Gilbert.
To Debbie and Gerald, Nickelsville newest residents, the camp is a fresh start.
The couple, who asked their last names not be used, arrived at the camp at 7:30 p.m. Debbie said they’d been living on the streets downtown, spending some nights in shelters, which separated men and women. At Nickelsville, they can stay together.
As Debbie sipped soda through a straw, Gerald and another man spread out a donated tent on a platform. Soon, another man appeared, then a third. They all studied tent poles before sliding them in tent sleeves. The tent rose, collapsed and rose again.
It wasn’t until Debbie spoke to other residents that she heard the news: Nickelsville had to move again. She and Gerald might have to move along with it.
She wrinkled her brow for a moment, then her lips formed a weak smile.
She tilted her head toward the people who’d shown up to pitch the tent. If the city had that kind of togetherness, a new site could be found in no time.
She said: “I have some faith.”