Kim “Tattoo Kimmy” Moss visited a cross that stands in the middle of a large encampment to the east of Redmond on a recent afternoon in February.

Heavy snowfall from the previous night blanketed the area with about 4 inches of snow. The bright afternoon sun reflected off the snow, making the light exceptionally bright. The network of roads, if they can be called that, lead to various camps composed of parked RVs, cars and trucks, and campers placed upon cinder blocks.

While some advocates call the encampment The Junipers, Moss and her friends call it “the dirt.”

One of those friends, Patricia Griffith, built the cross when she’d kicked her meth habit. As Moss and Griffith stood before the cross, Moss pointed to some black scrawl.

“This is my friend ‘Guy,”’ she said. “He died of pneumonia, which is easy to get out here. When I heard the news, my first thought was: ‘I didn’t visit him often enough.’ Now, he’s gone.”

Like Guy, Moss is among more than 770,000 homeless people nationwide who were counted in the 2024 annual Point in Time count, which is conducted by the U.S. Dept. of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). That number represents an 18% increase from the previous year, and is a record high. The previous record was 653,104 set the year before. HUD said soaring rents and the end of pandemic protections are to blame for the jump in those numbers.

In Central Oregon, 1,799 people were experiencing homelessness on a single night in January 2024, according to a statewide PIT count. Moss belongs to a subgroup who are considered “chronically homeless.” That means she’s experienced homelessness for at least a year, and she’s also battling a terminal illness and substance use disorder. Those factors often compound one another, which makes it harder to get back into housing once they become homeless.

While Moss has learned to live in “the dirt” during the past decade, she knows that life there is precarious. She feels an urgency to get out, but she must break through a number of barriers to escape.

“I want to find a home,” she said. “But I don’t know how. I don’t want my name on this cross.”

‘I did whatever I could to survive’

Born and raised in Redmond, Moss said she was just 15 years old when she hit the road to follow the Grateful Dead. She criss-crossed the country in pursuit of the Dead’s next gig, until frontman Jerry Garcia died in 1995.

“That was the end of an era for me,” said the 49-year-old, who now lives among hundreds of people in The Junipers. “I was 21 then, hitchhiking. I had no idea where I’d go next, or what I would do.”

Though she returned to Redmond a couple of months later, it wouldn’t be the last time she hit the road in pursuit of happiness.

She eventually moved to Kingston, New York, where she worked for a company that made tie-died Grateful Dead T-shirts. She also worked as an industrial seamstress, and she held jobs at fast food restaurants like Burger King.

“I did whatever I could to survive,” she said.

While she was on the road, Moss was more or less homeless. She didn’t know what a stable home was until 1998, she said, when she was married.

“I had my first of four daughters around that time,” Moss said. Then, she trailed off into silence.

“The hardest day of my life was when I chose to adopt my four daughters out to my brother,” Moss added after a pause.

That choice, as many others, was dictated by her addiction to meth. Moss said that addiction is one of the key factors that pushed her to join hundreds of others who live in “the dirt.”

“I’d come out here to hang out with my friends,” said Moss. “I’ve lived out here for 10 years, on and off.”

Moss said the last time she had a home of her own was between 2019-21, when she shared a Redmond apartment with her best friend JoAnne.

“But then, she died,” Moss said. “I tried to keep the apartment but had to let it go. I couldn’t afford it on my own.”

That’s when she returned to The Junipers, broken.

What does it mean to live in ‘the dirt?’

In the beginning, Moss lived in a tent. But it was unsustainable due to extreme cold and heavy snow, among other factors. Then, she was the recipient of a random act of kindness.

“Some friends gave me a camp trailer,” Moss said. “It was nice. But about seven months later, it burned to the ground and I had to start all over again.”

Whether the fires are caused by operator error, malfunctioning propane accessories, or arson, burning is a common fate for many things in “the dirt.”

“It’s bad,” Moss said, “but it’s also an occasion for people to come together, to help each other out, as neighbors are supposed to do.”

Though she appreciates those moments when the community comes together to help each other, she prefers solitude. That’s why she chooses to live in a remote corner of the encampment.

“It’s away from others, but still close to town,” she said. “You’ve got to have a way to get to town, otherwise everything’s so much harder.”

Moss said she’s grateful for the service providers and advocates — which include Jericho Road, Mosaic Health, Shepherd’s House, and a slew of others — who visit a site off of Antler Road each Friday. They bring food, clothing, supplies, medical care and propane.

“I’m grateful for the propane, of course,” she said. “Whether it’s for cooking or heating, it’s so helpful.”

But that doesn’t solve all of her worries.

“Every year, as winter sets in, people become more shady,” she said. “They start to wonder how they’re going to survive. You can hear them walking through the trees at night. It’s scary.”

She’s seen her share of people come and go. Some of them find a home and move away.

“Some of them die,” she said. “That’s why I hug all of my friends every time I see them. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.”

A foot in the door

Moss hasn’t given up hope that she will one day have her own home again, but she knows it will be an uphill battle. The housing supply is still significantly less than demand. The city of Redmond will need to add 1,500 affordable housing units in the next 20 years to meet demand.

But Moss can’t wait 10 years, and she’ll have to wait and see whether rent will ever be affordable with her income.

“I’m on disability,” said Moss. “I get a little less than $1,000 a month. It’s nowhere near enough to get my own place.”

That income has been a boon, she said, but it unexpectedly impacted her overall finances.

“I used to get $200 a month in SNAP benefits,” she said. “Since I was approved for disability, they cut the SNAP benefits to $90.”

In which case, Moss said she needs to find two or three reliable roommates.

“Even then, we need to find a private owner,” Moss said. “They’re usually a little more lax in their requirements than big apartment complexes.”

Moss is referring there to criminal background, credit and reference checks, which are ubiquitous when applying for rentals. While Moss may not have a criminal record, many people who have experienced homelessness do, which adds another challenge to being approved for a rental.

When asked how advocates can help her, and those in similar situations, her reply was deceptively simple.

“Just help me get my foot in the door,” she said. “I know it’s not that easy, but we need help.”

In the meantime, she feels time slipping away. Moss said that, since Guy’s death, she’s been in a slump.

“He took care of me when I needed help,” she said. “Five of my friends have died out here. It’s hard to live without running water, plumbing, heat. Every day is a struggle.”