The closure of the Purple Cliffs encampment has led some house-less people to leave the area, according to the Durango Police Department, while others have dispersed throughout the community and surrounding areas.
Durango Code Enforcement Officer Steve Barkley said he is “pleasantly surprised” there hasn’t been a drastic increase of camping, at least not during daylight hours.
“It’s been kind of a roller coaster,” he said. “There’s been some days where we run into more camps than others. But there hasn’t been any noticeable increase since Purple Cliffs closed.”
The La Plata County Sheriff’s Office has stepped up patrols since the Sept. 30 closing of Purple Cliffs, according to a release issued by the office. Deputies gave 12 verbal warnings on Tuesday for trespassing in the Ewing Mesa area, above Colorado Highway 3 on private land. The campers said they believed they were on Bureau of Land Management land. Eight camps were tagged and given 72 hours to vacate the mesa.
“When campers asked where they could go, deputies referred them to Manna for information and resources,” the release says.
Durango police called Skip Garcia’s 80-year-old mother Oct. 18 to tell her they had discovered several vacant campsites on her 100-acre parcel in west Durango, along with one campsite occupied by a woman screaming obscenities. Skip Garcia went to meet the officers.
“We don’t normally go to that side (of the property); it’s a large piece of property,” he said. “There are some areas that are somewhat inaccessible except by foot. It’s quite a hike.”
The Garcia property sits to the west and north of Tech Center Drive inside city limits.
The police told Garcia there was nothing they could do about the screaming woman unless he walked in with them and told her she was on private property. So he walked up the wash that marked the line between his mother’s property and city property.
“And I respectfully requested that she leave the property,” Garcia said. “I was nice about it and said she could have the rest of the day.”
Garcia went on to inspect other campsites on the property, some recent, some months old, and some that looked years old, he said.
“It looked like a mini Purple Cliffs,” he said. “I was kind of astonished. I had no idea. Then (Barkley) kindly informed me that unfortunately the private property owners are responsible for cleaning up the mess, or the aftermath of the campers. So it looked to me like it was going to be a completely and utterly daunting task.”
The only saving grace was that he was able to get his four-wheeler with a trailer into the area.
“I worked pretty steady, several trips, utilizing tarps and whatever I could just to start to gather the large items, and then I slowly started to gather the small items until there wasn’t much left,” he said. “But you can still definitely see the remnants of campsites. I just didn’t want it to be evident that it was OK to camp there.”
He loaded his pickup truck with the first load of items he brought down, and was grateful the city trash and recycling center was so close. But after realizing just how much work was involved, he drove straight to the trash station with his four-wheeler and trailer.
While Garcia worked, he watched as a steady flow of would-be campers walk up and down the wash.
He thought he had finished the cleanup after three full days of on-and-off labor, and city trash center charges in excess of a couple hundred dollars. Then his nephew, whom he called for help, discovered more camps in remote gullies only accessible by foot.
“There are some areas up there that we won’t be able to access,” Garcia said. “It would be nonsense to even try to hike down to get what has accumulated. We’d need a helicopter to get that stuff.”
Garcia found some elaborate campsites, some with well-built fire pits, and others with makeshift pits.
“And some were next to large ponderosa pines, and some of the pines were actually charred,” he said. “So fire danger is another big issue.”
Garcia posted no trespassing signs within sight of each other and in clear sight. Police told him the signs would allow them to enforce without him having to be present. He spent time talking with sheriff’s deputies about what could be done about the situation, while another deputy flew a surveillance drone above his property.
“Everybody was shaking their heads,” Garcia said. “You know, they closed Purple Cliffs without a plan. Everybody knew they were going to do it for a long time, and with no plan in mind, and now they are being dispersed throughout the city. Anyone I have asked with any position of authority has no idea what to do.”
It basically shifts the problem to private property owners with land on the outskirts of town adjacent to BLM land, Garcia said. He now plans to patrol the property frequently for what he believes will be an “ongoing mitigation of cleanup.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a ‘we’re done kind of thing,’” he said. “I think it will be constant.”
Despite the hassle, the expense and the amount of work he’s had to do, Garcia doesn’t blame the homeless.
“I don’t know what the answer is,” he said. “I certainly don’t pass judgment on the campers. You know some of them are probably in circumstances beyond their control. And some of them probably choose that way of life. And some of them have probably been forced and have no other choice. So I sympathize with them. It’s perplexing.”
Brett Perrin retired early after operating a whale-watching business in Santa Barbara, California. He moved to Colorado and into a house in Bayfield. Then he purchased four rental units in a trailer park in Durango. Life was good. He liked to ride his Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
Then a simple twist of fate – a motorcycle accident while riding past Walmart two years ago. He locked up his breaks and skidded nearly 100 feet before colliding with a horse trailer being pulled by a truck. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.
“I was in the hospital for three months, in a coma, brain damage, broken arm, broken leg,” Perrin said, after first apologizing for his slow speech, and occasional pauses to collect his thoughts. “Three-hundred-thousand dollars in the bank was lost due to the time in the hospital. I wasn’t able to answer a question about who I am or what day it is. It was about 11 months before it came back to me. I’m still slow. I hope it gets better.”
Perrin shared his story in the parking lot of Manna soup kitchen Thursday while eating a slice of white bread spread with peanut butter and jelly. He pulled back his stocking cap to show the scars across his scalp and the bluish-discoloring at his temples caused by the accident.
“You know, I made early retirement and then a motorcycle accident causes all these things I’ve never experienced,” he said. “I’m 62 years old. I’ve never been homeless. I’ve never been to a Manna soup kitchen. And winter’s coming on. I’ve never spent a winter in a one-man tent.
“I just left the bank and I have zero in my account. I’m starting all over and it feels like I might be 10 years old. I don’t remember how to do things the way I want to. I know what a bank does. But other than that ... .
“I tried to get employment,” he said. “But two hours at four restaurants and, ‘I’m sorry Mr. Perrin, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.’ I realize they were talking about my vocabulary, or language, or memory. I told one guy it would get better if he just gave me a chance. But that’s been my experience so far.”
Perrin lived at Purple Cliffs for five months before it was shut down. Now he camps in his tent inside city limits because he doesn’t have a bike to help him cover greater distances. He said he never imagined he would be in this situation, looking for a dishwashing job like he had in high school.
“I’ll keep looking,” he said. “I’ve never been depressed. But there is some depression of ‘What am I going to do?’ Where’s mom? Where’s dad? Or a good friend?’”
Perrin’s hope is that the city and the county will come up with something that offers electricity to keep warm. And a real restroom, not just portable toilets. It’s a nice town and it attracts the homeless for some reason, he said.
“So there is a population of homeless people, not drug addicts, who live here,” he said “If they don’t want a problem then do the solution. Maybe even charge a little something, but not the $800 to $1,200 it costs to get a place now. And please do it soon. It’s getting cold.”
gjaros@durangoherald.com
