A night at the Warming Center

I line up with everyone outside the Flathead Warming Center.

All I have with me are a couple of backpacks with clothes and toiletries, as well as a small camera, notepad and voice recorder. As I wait, the temperature begins to decrease.

The shelter opens its doors at 6 p.m. People are allowed to start lining up outside around 5:15 p.m., and typically the 50 beds are occupied in short order.

Most nights, the Kalispell shelter fills up and has to turn people away to fend for themselves.

The shelter makes exceptions and reserves beds for someone whose work schedule prevents them from being at the shelter in person to claim a slot. People who have stayed for the most nights in a row go to the bottom of the list, but if someone has spent a night on the street, their priority is reinstated.

The Warming Center serves an area of over 5,000 square miles and over 100,000 residents with a growing homeless population, according to annual surveys conducted cooperatively by valley nonprofits. In 2020, Kalispell was home to 319 unhoused residents. During surveys conducted the prior four years, the average was 219.

On this night, I’m staying at the center at the invitation of shelter Director Tonya Horn. She requested I come to experience the shelter and also interview guests and staff to find out what it’s like for those who sleep there during the harsh winter months.

Horn and members of the shelter’s board felt targeted and misunderstood after the Flathead County commissioners published a letter in January blaming the presence of charities as a reason for an increase in the number of homeless people living on the streets in the county. Horn also said that shelter guests felt increasingly marginalized following the letter and when laws restricting park access in Kalispell were implemented.

ONCE I am granted access to the shelter, which is done on a two-by-two basis, I’m welcomed by Jesse, a regular guest who knows the rules and has taken it upon himself to help out as a bouncer.

I fill out my intake paperwork and am assigned a bed and locker.

There are strict rules in place about what possessions people can bring inside, and when they can access them. All belongings are put in lockers as soon as check-in is complete, and guests must get the staff’s permission to access the locker.

Drugs and alcohol are forbidden, as well as any behavior that makes other guests, staff or volunteers feel unsafe or uncomfortable. Surveillance cameras monitor nearly every inch of shelter property, with feeds running onto a large TV just outside the sleeping area and into the director’s office.

The shelter’s bunk beds are arranged barracks-style. Heading into the area with bedding from my assigned tote, the smell of bleach hits me.

On this night, when the temperature drops to 14 degrees Fahrenheit outside, all the beds are occupied. I’ve been placed in one of four beds typically reserved for emergencies.

Tonya had warned me that the shelter has had issues with bed bugs and that I should bring a separate set of clothing to avoid bringing any stowaways home with me after my stay.

She said the bugs find their way into the shelter on the clothes of guests who have been couch-surfing when they can’t or don’t stay at the Warming Center.

AFTER SCOPING out the sleeping arrangements I venture into the shelter’s main hall, which has tables for eating, a TV, laundry and bathroom facilities, and a couple of computers.

For dinner, volunteers are dishing out beef stroganoff and pizza. Self-serve options include ramen and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I make myself some instant noodles and take a seat.

People mill around the space as everyone gets food, takes a shower or does laundry. On this night, a volunteer is offering haircuts free of charge.

At the dining tables, I introduce myself to some of the shelter’s regular guests.

Everybody I speak with is welcoming and most are glad to share their stories with me.

After I finish eating, I meet Alex Gambreo. A lawyer by day, he has for three years also worked the overnight shift at the shelter. He thinks that increasing property values and cuts in mental health treatment programs are to blame for rising homelessness.

“Who would want to stay in a place like this if they didn’t have a better place to stay? You have to follow very specific rules, and that’s hard for a lot of people, especially if you have mental illness,” he says.

“That’s the hardest part of my job; I don’t like being like a parent,” Gambreo adds. “I'm babysitting adults sometimes. We have to have rules for 50 people to be here, otherwise it’s chaos.”

He worries that without the shelter, Kalispell would have more crime.

“People find a way to get what they need,” he says.

EARLIER WARNINGS of creeping bugs keep me awake as I lay on my bunk. Though it’s after 10 p.m. lights out, ambient light from the main hall area leaks into the sleeping area.

Ultimately it’s the lack of privacy that provides the biggest challenge for a restful night’s sleep. Listening to the groans, coughs and snores interrupt sleep, but it’s the echoes of a man experiencing night terrors that are unsettling.

In the morning, it’s back to the slightly chaotic shuffle, with people getting breakfast and showering or doing laundry before the Mountain Climber bus service picks up many guests at 9 a.m. The bus comes again around 10:15 a.m., at which time everyone has to be out of the shelter until their doors open again in the evening. I eat some oatmeal and speak with a few more guests and staff.

Then I head home.

Reporter Adrian Knowler can be reached at 758-4407 or aknowler@dailyinterlake.com.