Brown Palace Hotel, Denver, 1911 Brown Palace Hotel, Denver, by John Fielder, Colorado 1870-2000

Three years ago, moving day for Danny began with a mental health worker rousting him from his makeshift shelter along the river's edge. A half hour later, Danny's "home" -- and that of 200 others camped along the 10-mile stretch of the South Platte River that cuts through Denver -- was demolished by a city work detail assigned to enforce a no-camping ordinance passed when the Denver city council decided homelessness and redevelopment were incompatible .

For decades the banks of the South Platte have provided refuge for many who have traveled West. Its meandering course penetrates the high plains and over time has served as an important regional waterway, first for native inhabitants and, later, for European trappers and white settlers. In the arid grasslands of this vast plateau at the base of the Rockies, the Platte (French for "flat" or "shallow") helped open a pathway to the frontier.

Those seeking adventure or a new start still follow the river's route west. The state that was christened "Colorado" for its red earth continues to attract the restless, the adventuresome and those who flee the duress of urban living elsewhere. But the banks of the Platte provide less shelter for weary travelers these days as a growing affluent population claims them as its playground. A host of entertainment and recreation venues today straddle the river valley: a Six Flags amusement park, a 20,000-seat arena for professional basketball and hockey, a stately home for National League baseball at Coors Field. The massive columns of a $364 million football stadium, financed in large measure by a voter-approved sales tax, has begun to emerge on the river's western bank. A museum for children and a world-class aquarium draw families to the shores of the Platte, many pedaling or skating the miles of paved trails that have replaced long-outmoded river travel.

As this sort of urban development moved in during the 1990s, however, public pressure mounted for the city to "clean up" the homeless problem along the river. People who, like Danny, spurned the constraints of Denver's overnight shelters and preferred the freedom of sleeping outdoors -- even in winter -- have, somewhat ironically, been displaced. Today, at the confluence of the Platte with the Cherry Creek, where pioneer settlers once staked out their claims to a new life, a new $20-million 94,000-square-foot flagship REI "megastore" has just opened -- to serve the outdoor-loving public.

The city's efforts to remove Danny and his homeless peers from their riverside encampments in 1997 were -- not surprisingly -- only partially successful. About 50 of the people who populated these settlements were placed in housing with the city's assistance. But within a year as many as 150 had returned to new sites along the water's edge, some burrowing into dugouts hidden from open view. Setting up camp on state and highway property outside the city's jurisdiction has helped others avoid the routine sweeps along city trails and parkways that now prevent Denver's most independent poor from setting up more permanent campsites.

A premium on space in the eighth largest state

"Tis a privilege to live in Colorado," wrote Frederick G. Bonfils, early Denver entrepreneur and promoter. Residents are discovering, however, that the privilege of living in the freedom and grandeur of the West has its price. Unparalled growth has driven up the cost of housing and made affordable shelter scarce. Furthermore, Denver is not the only locality in the state where flourishing real estate development has brought the pursuit of individual freedom into direct conflict with the common welfare.

In one sense, the premium on space seems ludicrous; Colorado is a big place. With more than 104,000 square miles, it is the eighth largest state in the union. Visitors from more densely populated cities in other parts of the world like Tokyo or Mexico City marvel at the land area that enables such sprawling growth. But Colorado's mile-high residents place a particular premium on the aesthetics of their surroundings and on preserving their personal stake in mountain views, "treed" property and open space.

In Colorado's mountain resort communities, the astronomical value of real estate prohibits all but the most privileged from staking a claim to home ownership. Multi-million-dollar vacation villas line the winding roads ascending to ski areas and overlooking golf courses. Supporting such lavish lifestyles requires a vast labor-intensive service industry. The demand for construction help alone -- not to mention the grounds- and housekeepers, maintenance crews, and hotel staff -- has drawn waves of job seekers to places like Aspen and the Vail Valley. Affordable housing for service workers, many of whom are immigrants, rarely exists in these exclusive neighborhoods; the maids, busboys, framers, lift operators and greenskeepers usually live "down valley," often commuting two to four hours each day under potentially treacherous conditions.

Aware of the dramatic inequities perpetuated in these resort areas, the state legislature has contemplated steps to address the situations that strain local resources, from public utilities to schools to roads. Adequate housing for resort-area workers remains a fundamental issue, and local authorities struggle to develop feasible solutions. One ski community in Colorado, Winter Park, is considering a $3 per square foot assessment on new construction to guarantee that affordable housing is available into the future. The individualistic character of Colorado politics, however, usually tends to discourage such intervention. Gun-control measures -- not initiatives for decent housing -- have recently been more likely to preoccupy state lawmakers. At times, the West seems remarkably unchanged.

Boulder: controlled growth,

even for churches

Closer to the Denver metropolitan area, however, the struggle over space becomes more nuanced. For instance, the city of Boulder, which nestles against the foothills about 45 minutes northwest of Denver, has instituted stringent growth-limitation policies in an effort to preserve the aesthetics of open space for its residents. Admirably, the city hasn't neglected to provide public housing and progressive services to its homeless. At times, though, public debate over values becomes perplexing. For example, the relocation of a colony of prairie dogs enflamed local attention when the Boulder headquarters of the Celestial Seasonings herbal tea company was rocked by a rodent eradication scandal.

Some less-fortunate victims of Boulder's controlled-growth efforts, however, have been religious organizations. St. Ambrose Episcopal Church in suburban Boulder learned first-hand about growth restrictions and the premium placed on open space when the congregation sought to expand its 20-year-old facility. Boulder land use officials required the church to provide a conservation easement consisting of all of its undeveloped property in exchange for the privilege of building a much scaled-back improvement to their facility. St. Ambrose's encounter with the Boulder land use department gave them a much-smaller-than-hoped-for building and cost them the right to future development of the property. St. Walburga's, a convent and retreat house established in the 1930s by Roman Catholic nuns who fled Nazi Germany, had to sell its property and rebuild elsewhere when the city turned down a request to expand. The sisters have happily founded a new facility on donated land in a remote spot in northern Colorado, hopefully distanced by several decades from future urban encroachment.

New urban dilemmas: homelessness on the rise

The poor who reside in the urban centers, however, face perhaps the harshest toll from the onslaught of development. Many U.S. cities are experiencing revitalization with new jobs and a resurgence in urban population. While the rate of home ownership in city centers has reached 50 percent for the first time, a HUD report showed that buying a home in the inner city is more difficult today for individuals at all levels of income (The State of the Cities, 1999). Furthermore, the shortage of affordable rental housing is getting worse. HUD estimates suggest that 5.3 million American households spend more than 50 percent of their income on rent. A report from the Center for Affordable Housing in Denver confirmed a comparable "worst case" housing shortage for the mile-high city, citing that apartment vacancies dipped below 4 percent in 1999.

Urban revitalization often involves more displacement than improvement of conditions for both the homeless and those at risk of becoming homeless. Sweeping the Platte River and Cherry Creek free of settlements of vagrants may force a few into shelters or permanent housing or simply to leave town. But clearing away the evidence of a homeless population does not eliminate either the need for low-cost accommodations or the poor's desire to live independently.

As the modern city of Denver has reinvented itself in the last few decades, the living situations of those who exist at the margins have been made increasingly precarious. An early wave of urban development in the 1960s flattened blocks of depressed buildings into parking lots, permanently eliminating hundreds of single room occupancy (SRO) units from the city's core. In the 1970s, the creation of a multi-institutional college campus bordering downtown was made possible by the demolition of the Auraria neighborhood, an enclave of mostly working-class and Latino residents. During the 1980s and 1990s, revitalization of the former warehouse district in lower downtown followed the construction of a stadium for Denver's new professional baseball team. Upscale commercial interests -- shops, restaurants, clubs and high-priced lofts and condominiums -- edged out shelters for the homeless.

Despite the impressive economic comeback from the oil industry "bust" that battered the city during the 1980s, the number of homeless persons in Denver continues to rise. A 1995 study showed that homelessness increased at a much higher rate in the early 1990s than in the late 1980s (Patterns of Homelessness in the Denver Metropolitan Area, University of Colorado at Denver). An average of 3,300 persons were homeless (living on the streets or in emergency or transitional housing) in Denver on any given night in August, 1995. The research also showed that children are the fastest growing segment of the homeless population in Denver, their number almost doubling during the first half of the 1990s.

Although the homeless tend to be concentrated in central Denver, there is evidence that many people become homeless while living in the suburbs, but move to Denver because services are available there. Urban gentrification has largely consolidated the location of Denver's homeless service providers within the shadow of central downtown's skyscrapers. Overnight shelters for singles and families, health clinics, as well as distribution points for meals and clothing are clustered within a few short blocks. The Metropolitan Denver Homeless Initiative (MDHI) reports that about 1,000 emergency shelter beds are available each night in the city for individual adults; about half that number of spaces are available for families.

Private solutions to a public dilemma: the St. Francis Center

While the number of homeless persons is on the rise, the 1995 study also showed that the capacity of groups to provide services has also increased. Furthermore, Denver's network of privately initiated services is markedly preferable to the municipally run facilities in other major cities, according to Franklin James, lead investigator for the UCD study.

The St. Francis Center day shelter, a ministry of the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado, has provided a refuge from the streets for homeless people in Denver since 1983. In addition to offering homeless men, women and children a safe haven from the elements and the stress of street life, the Center provides shower facilities, telephone access, and limited health services. Guests can earn a clean set of clothes by working around the Center. They can also use the Center's street address to receive mail, a basic but critical service for preserving contact with family, the Veteran's Administration or other government agencies and employers. For a period of time limited only by the demand for available space, guests can also place their belongings in storage at the Center. A single black plastic garbage bag contains the extent of the worldly possessions for many who take advantage of this service.

Unlike many other faith-based programs for the homeless in Denver, the St. Francis Center does not subject its visitors to proselytizing or other demands for personal change. Basing its approach on the centrality of the Incarnation, the Center, its staff and numerous volunteers try to uphold the dignity of those who enter, trusting that respect will have a greater long-term impact than any sermon or lecture. The homeless make about 125,000 visits to the St. Francis Center annually, about 400 each day.

The number of guests increased dramatically in late 1999 when the unexplained murders of six homeless men briefly focused the attention of the entire metro area on the dangers of living on the street. The crimes committed were vicious: Two of the victims were decapitated. Although all but one of the murders remain unsolved, territorial conflict between younger homeless people and older transients is suspected as a contributing factor. The names of the victims, along with the other homeless who have died on the streets of Denver, are engraved in a set of modest memorial plaques at the St. Francis Center.

Attention to the plight of the homeless is ordinarily a seasonal (i.e., Thanksgiving and Christmas) concern, but service providers are increasingly subject to scrutiny from locals displeased with their presence. The St. Francis Center recently began to feel the pressure of gentrification as complaints from a nearby property owner last year threatened to shut the facility down. Evidence of neighborhood redevelopment is beginning to encircle the facility. A number of buildings in the vicinity -- some dating to the 19th century -- are undergoing costly restoration and rehabilitation. Fears about the Center's impact on surrounding property values probably prompted a surge in community interest in the activities at St. Francis. The Center was able to persuade local authorities that providing a safe place for the homeless was beneficial for the neighborhood, and efforts were made to reduce the number of guests loitering near the entrance to the Center.

The Center has continued unabated in its efforts to provide a sanctuary for the homeless for the past 17 years, whether such concern has been in the public's favor or not. While the needs of the chronically homeless remain constant, the varying ability of service providers to "stay afloat" often has a ripple effect on other providers. This year, in collaboration with the Colorado Coalition for the Homeless, the St. Francis Center helped avoid the closure of one of the few facilities in Denver where the most vulnerable homeless -- the aged, the infirm, those with multiple disabilities -- can be provided with stable and secure shelter. The Social Security Income for an individual with mental illness is $435 per month, an inadequate amount to provide housing, food and competent supervision. Grant funding from the city, as well as contributions from foundations and other private sources, will help keep the doors of the Valdez House open.

The measure of 'progress': the closing of the frontier?

What lies ahead for service providers like the St. Francis Center, particularly as a robust economy and subsequent development pressures continue? The options for the chronically homeless, who experience higher rates of mental illness and drug and alcohol addiction, are dwindling as cities undergo revitalization. Solutions for the problems of the homeless will inevitably challenge our own economic values. The invisible hand of the market makes no provision for those who, particularly because of illness, debilitation, or age, cannot fully participate in a capitalist system. It is imperative that the communities where we live -- in addition to our faith-based initiatives -- begin to think and strategize systemically, not just to respond with palliative measures. The metro Denver voters who approved the 1-cent tax on every $10 to pay for a new football stadium will hardly feel the pinch of their largesse. Would that decent housing for Denver's poor deserved a fraction of the same consideration given to a home for its football team.

A few years ago, the author Kathleen Norris rekindled an appreciation for the spirituality of place in her book, Dakota. Her insight expressed the depth of our longing for stability and for a sense of connectedness to the land, to a particular place. For some in our inner cities, however, stability can only be measured by the 2.4 cubic feet of a single plastic garbage bag in storage at a day shelter for the homeless. When human progress prevents one's ability to find a place to stand and to belong, the western frontier will indeed be closed.

Nancy Kinney is an Episcopalian doing graduate work in public policy at the University of Colorado in Denver.