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---
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Tag: ["🤵🏻", "🇺🇸", "🏕️"]
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Date: 2025-02-16
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DocType: "WebClipping"
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Hierarchy:
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TimeStamp: 2025-02-16
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Link: https://sfstandard.com/2025/02/08/golden-gate-park-ranger-homelessness/
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location:
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CollapseMetaTable: true
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---
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Parent:: [[@News|News]]
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Read:: 🟥
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---
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```button
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name Save
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type command
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action Save current file
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id Save
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```
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^button-HerjobistoremovehomelesspeoplefromSFparksNSave
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# Her job is to remove homeless people from SF's parks. Her methods are extraordinary
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Kaine moved into Golden Gate Park sometime in the late 1990s. He’s vague on the date or details that led to him living outside. But he remembers exactly what he brought with him: “a big-ass backpack,” two sleeping bags, and a 12-person Coleman tent that was so hard to set up he got thoroughly drenched his first night.
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Kaine, whose real name is Kevin Horton, settled into the woods surrounding [Hellman Hollow](https://sfrecpark.org/871/Golden-Gate-Park---Hellman-Hollow). For more than 20 years, no one could figure out how to help him get a real roof over his head. Kaine became a fixture of the park, known by locals for carrying a staff he’d carved from fallen trees, accompanied by his yellow Lab, Honey. He knew all the park’s hidden trails, the best places to pick blackberries “as big as my pinkie finger,” and the hive in an old cypress where he could collect honey to mix with his vodka. People would tell him, “Damn, Kaine, you know more about that park than the park rangers do,” he recalls.
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It was a semi-wild way of life. While most of his food came from Safeway, he occasionally caught fish in Metson Lake to grill, or made stew from raccoons or squirrels caught by Honey. He used the park’s restrooms when they were open and kept a bucket by his tent for when they weren’t.
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He was sometimes friendly and chatty, sometimes ranty. And he was always deeply protective of the meadow, alerting the gardeners to trees that needed trimming or warning parents to keep their kids away from the poisonous hemlock on the hillsides. Late one night, he discovered a naked woman sitting on the curb. He gave her a sweatshirt, let her sleep in his tent while he slept outside, and, in the morning, went to the police at the horse stables so they could call her parents. In turn, many who played in the meadow looked after him, sharing food from picnics and barbecues.
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For years, park staff tried unsuccessfully to dislodge Kaine. Recreation and Parks Department rangers would cite him and tell him to move. The department’s environmental services crew, who clear abandoned campsites, would tear down his tent when he was out and haul away his possessions. Members of the [Homeless Outreach Team](https://hsh.sfgov.org/services/the-homelessness-response-system/outreach/homeless-outreach-team/), or HOT, the city program that controls access to shelter beds, would occasionally stop by and ask Kaine if he wanted a placement. His answer was always an emphatic no. Hellman Hollow was his home.
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In March 2021, a woman named Amanda Barrows became a park ranger, joining a special detail focused on unhoused people. Inevitably, that meant dealing with Kaine, who by then was nearing 60. Barrows slowly learned that he’d had a rough childhood and had grown up in a foster family. The park was his childhood refuge, a place where he’d spend afternoons wandering around and riding the carousel. She understood then why he had such a deep attachment to the place.
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For Barrows, trying to forcibly remove Kaine from Golden Gate Park seemed both ineffective and cruel. “I was like, clearly this is not working. He rebuilds, he comes back. What we’re doing is harming this person who’s obviously just stuck. So let’s try something else.” And so she did.
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I spent two years following Barrows and some of those she calls her “clients” to better understand what it takes to unstick someone who’s been stuck on the streets — or in a park – for a long time. A welter of problems can make someone chronically homeless: addiction, mental illness, disabilities, trauma, poverty, not to mention failures of the system. None are easily or quickly solved, even after the person is housed. To do more than just clear a person off the sidewalk demands persistence, patience, coordination of services, and intense personal engagement. Which raises the difficult question: If this is what it takes to help one person, can the city find the resolve to help the thousands living rough?
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Instead of applying force to get Kaine out of the park, Barrows offered a helping hand. She embarked on a slow campaign of earning his trust and shepherding him through what one Recreation and Parks Department official described as the “arduous and achingly bureaucratic tasks” necessary just to be eligible for housing.
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Kaine had no ID. All of his required public documents, from a birth certificate to criminal records, were under a different name, and they all had to be aligned to move his housing applications forward. Getting everything in order meant trips to various agencies — and the only way to ensure Kaine went was if someone accompanied him: either a member of HOT or Barrows and another ranger who was her partner at the time. Even then, Kaine repeatedly balked. For him, “it was overwhelming,” Barrows recalled.
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All the while, she tried to help him see that leaving the park didn’t mean losing his connection to it. “This can still be your home, but just in a different way,” she’d tell him. He could gain the comforts of living indoors and still enjoy the park. “It can be like a choice, something you come and go from, versus something you’re stuck in.”
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After seven months of cajoling, hand-holding, and advocacy by Barrows, Kaine in October 2021 was granted a room at the [Civic Center Hotel Navigation Center](https://homerisesf.org/2022/10/building-a-legacy-civic-center-hotel/), where he could stay until he was assigned permanent housing. Barrows and her partner helped him pack and hauled his two suitcases — heavy with gear, broken electronics, and sticks and rocks he’d collected in the park — up to his fifth-floor room. They helped him settle in by donating furniture and clothes, including the boots and pants worn by rangers. “We knew that’s what it was going to take to make it happen,” Barrows said.
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But when they went back the next day to check on him, Kaine was gone. Barrows had a hunch about where to find him. She drove to Hellman Hollow, to the last spot where he’d had a tent. He was lying under the bushes, barely conscious and near-frozen from the previous night’s pelting rain. He had left the shelter, he later explained, because “some idiot began smart-mouthing me, and I felt like I was going to punch his head off. I didn’t. I went back home.”
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Barrows called an ambulance. Kaine fought the EMTs when they tried to sedate him for the trip to the hospital, but when she visited him at the navigation center a few days later, he was back to his genial self. He told her with a chuckle, “I’m not doing that again.”
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And he hasn’t.
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Source: Illustration by The Standard
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The number of unhoused people living in city parks is a [tiny fraction](https://sfstandard.com/2024/05/31/golden-gate-park-homeless-population-seeks-privacy/) of the city’s 8,000-person homeless population, numbering in the few dozens at most. According to the city’s [quarterly counts of homeless people’s tents and vehicles](https://app.powerbigov.us/view?r=eyJrIjoiY2FmZDNiY2ItMjA2OS00YjU5LWFkMDUtODlkNTgyZmQ3MmNhIiwidCI6IjIyZDVjMmNmLWNlM2UtNDQzZC05YTdmLWRmY2MwMjMxZjczZiJ9), which fluctuate considerably, there were nine tents and 32 vehicles in Golden Gate Park in February 2021 and just one tent and five vehicles in January of this year. But while the numbers are small, the rangers field complaints related to homelessness on a daily basis.
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Historically, the rangers dealt with unhoused people by making them move along and issuing citations. Most times, the person would simply pack up their things and move to another spot in the park. It was “a really bad game of hide-and-seek,” said Barrows.
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In 2015, Rec and Parks decided to tackle the issue another way and created the special ranger detail devoted to homeless outreach. “This approach aims to balance enforcement with compassionate outreach,” said department spokesperson Tamara Aparton. The outreach rangers work with city and private agencies to connect people living in San Francisco’s 220 parks with services they need: a shelter bed or permanent housing, medical or mental health care, a detox program, a bus ticket home, a new ID. The hope is that every bit of assistance will move someone closer to stable housing.
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> ‘They’re in the parks because they want to be away from people. They don’t want to be all on top of each other.’
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>
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> Amanda Barrows
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The approach is similar to a [pilot program](https://www.sfchronicle.com/sf/article/homeless-castro-district-encampment-17770957.php) the city deployed in the Castro in 2022. Caseworkers and Public Health employees worked intensively with 34 chronically unhoused people. After five months, all had accepted services they’d long resisted.
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Barrows, 32, is the more senior of the two outreach rangers on the detail and knows first-hand the precarities that can land someone on the streets. She grew up in public housing in a Boston suburb and moved to San Francisco at 19 “with $200 and two bags.” For five years, she lived in “a dodgy SRO,” and for another five years, she was “transient without a permanent address.” Her father died of a fentanyl overdose in 2021, the same year she became a park ranger. “I can relate to a lot of the people who I contact through my own lived experience.”
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She understands why people resent the squalor of street tent sites and is sympathetic to the park gardeners’ complaints about having to clean up garbage, human waste, and drug paraphernalia. Still, she doesn’t believe in treating homelessness as a criminal activity. It’s a complicated stance for someone whose primary responsibility is enforcing the codes against camping and other laws meant to ensure the city’s parks feel safe. Each day, Barrows struggles to find the right balance between cop and caseworker.
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The impact of the outreach rangers is hard to measure precisely. The number of encampments in Golden Gate Park has decreased 10-fold since 2017, though Aparton says it’s not clear to what extent that’s due to the outreach rangers.
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Barrows by all accounts has taken the job further than any of her predecessors, winning praise from her bosses. In nominating her for a departmental award in 2021, the late director of operations Denny Kern applauded “her innate ability to connect and sincerely engage with people” as her “superpower” that enables her to help unhoused people. “Rec and Parks — and all of San Francisco — is lucky to have her,” says Phil Ginsburg, general manager of the department.
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Barrows estimates that since 2021, she has helped 50 to 60 people accept services that enabled them to leave the park. Not everyone followed a straight line to housing, but of the 28 long-timers living in the park when she became a ranger, more than half are now indoors. In 2024, she and outreach ranger Robert Ramey helped eight park residents get housed.
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The outreach rangers could be even more effective, says Barrows, if there were better coordination with the city agencies serving homeless people. For instance, there used to be two HOT workers assigned to city parks, which allowed them to quickly respond to calls for help from outreach rangers. That’s no longer the case. Now, she says, if she meets an unhoused person who wants shelter and calls HOT, it can take up to 72 hours for someone to get out to the park. By then, the person has often moved. She has to find them and start the process all over again.
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Source: Illustration by The Standard
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Another park dweller Barrows dealt with shows just how hard that process can be. Ronnie Morrisette became homeless in 2004, when he was 18, after the grandfather who raised him died and the family home in Ingleside was sold. He’d been in and around the park for more than a decade, and liked it. “It’s the closest thing we San Francisco kids will ever see to nature,” he says. He’s a compact, muscular man, who can be funny and charming and also suspicious and volatile in ways that make him his own worst enemy.
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Barrows met Morrisette in 2021, when he was living in the woods near the archery field. He immediately made clear that he had no interest in pursuing housing. He said he was “on a spiritual quest.” As he later told me, he liked the freedom of living outside. It tested his abilities and kept his racing mind busy, the same thing he felt when he smoked crystal meth or, as a kid, swallowed ADHD drugs.
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Had he been willing to go to a temporary shelter, Barrows would have connected him with HOT. But congregate shelters, where dozens, if not hundreds, sleep cheek-by-jowl in barracks-style beds, are usually out of the question for the people she works with. “They’re in the parks because they want to be away from people. They don’t want to be all on top of each other.”
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She didn’t cite Morrisette at that first meeting (though later she would), which surprised him, since he was used to being hassled by rangers. Even more surprising was that she asked if he needed help. “Amanda was the first park ranger I heard saying that spiel,” he recalls.
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Her chief goal was to establish a rapport with him, as she had with Kaine. “You have to actually dig in and build relationships with these people and understand their needs,” she says. She offered help in small doses: She let him charge his phone in her truck, gave him trash bags to clean up his campsites, and provided a DMV voucher so he could get an ID to use for food stamps and other benefits.
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She’d scour thickets in the park to find his campsite and do wellness checks. She’d invite him to join her while she patrolled areas on foot, or to help her pick up trash. She found he liked to engage in “meaning-of-life existential conversations.” He told her he’d once hoped to be in law enforcement until a felony conviction closed off that option. She encouraged him to apply to be a park ranger.
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> ‘It’s almost like he’s just blinded by rage or emotions or upset. And you can’t really do much other than watch, because if you try to forcibly intervene, it escalates.’
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>
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> Amanda Barrows
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When Morrisette’s tent site got too messy or drew complaints, she’d let him know he had to move but gave him time to pack up his things, knowing he’d likely find another site nearby. Still, she couldn’t always protect him from sweeps by the environmental services crew. When that happened, she would sympathize with his rage and frustration over the loss of his things. Soon enough, though, he’d have a new tent, sleeping bags, blankets, suitcases, pots, pans, bikes, tools, and all manner of other stuff, and his campsite would be sprawling again.
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The cycle was exhausting, and it would take more than two years to break. The first hint of change came in July 2022, when Morrisette agreed to get an assessment through the city’s [coordinated entry system](https://ecs-sf.org/adult-coordinated-entry/), the first step in seeking long-term housing. Barrows accompanied him to the Adult Coordinated Entry office on 10th Street but wasn’t permitted to sit in as he filled out a survey used to determine how urgently someone needs housing. She worried that he was so accustomed to the threats of living outside that he would mark “no” on questions about whether he was in danger or had experienced violence. Whatever the reasons, he failed to qualify for priority status, which would have put him on a fast track to a placement in housing.
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Barrows was disappointed; Morrisette saw it as confirmation of his belief that he would never be helped by the system.
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Over the next year, Morrisette’s health steadily deteriorated. The asthma that had plagued him since childhood was so bad that some mornings he could barely breathe. Though just 37, he’d been diagnosed with congestive heart failure and was visiting the emergency room several times a month.
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The one bright spot in his life was a puppy a friend had given him, a sweet tan hound with golden eyes whom he named Joi. In a common act for Barrows, she brought Joi a leash and collar, along with dog toys and food.
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By the fall of 2023, Morrisette was taking small steps toward moving inside. He’d undergone another housing assessment and gained priority status. With Barrows’ encouragement, he got himself on the waiting list for transitional housing, a place to live until something more permanent opened up.
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But in early November, Morrisette’s mood plunged. He was coming up on the one-year anniversary of the overdose death of a woman he described as “the love of my life.” One morning, when his asthma was bad, he went to the emergency room at UCSF’s St. Mary’s Hospital, taking Joi with him. Because dogs weren’t allowed, Animal Care and Control was called to hold her at the pound. Morrisette was so distraught he left the hospital, against medical advice, a catheter still in his arm.
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Barrows found him in the park a few days later, with the catheter still in place. He’d been using it to inject crystal meth. He walked away from her, then veered into the street, directly into the path of a truck. It skidded to a stop, missing him by inches.
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“What are you doing, dude?” Barrows yelled. Morrisette continued across the street. “He flashes,” she says of his now-familiar state of agitation. “It’s almost like he’s just blinded by rage or emotions or upset. And you can’t really do much other than watch, because if you try to forcibly intervene, it escalates.”
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Two days later, Morrisette suffered an overdose from fentanyl. By then he was living in an encampment of RVs and tents on the Lower Great Highway, next to the park. Barrows and one of the RV residents administered Narcan and CPR until an ambulance arrived. The incident shook her deeply. She feared if Morrisette didn’t change his life soon, he would die, either deliberately or accidentally.
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In early 2024, after a punishing series of storms, Barrows helped Morrisette and another resident of the encampment secure placement in a double room in transitional housing. To get the slot, they decided to lie and say they were same-sex partners, even though they were barely friends. But the arrangement didn’t last long. The man got sick and was hospitalized, and a stranger was moved into the room. Morrisette got into a fight with the guy and was kicked out of the facility. He returned to the Lower Great Highway.
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To Barrows, the fault was in the placement, not in Morrisette. “Ronnie was always very clear about his needs. He knows he’s a volatile person. He doesn’t want to be in a shared room, especially with a stranger,” she said.
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Still, his setbacks, and those of Barrows’ other clients, were taking a toll on her. Some days, she admitted, she felt burned out by all the distress she had to witness. “This can be just so exhausting to try to show up fully for so many people every day. And then be a container for all this brokenness.”
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Source: Illustration by The Standard
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Over the course of two months last year, Morrisette endured three more sweeps, was arrested for assault (the charges were later dropped), and then, most crushingly, lost his best friend in a motorcycle accident. The [crash happened in Golden Gate Park](https://sfstandard.com/2024/03/08/motorcyclist-killed-in-crash-at-golden-gate-park/), and Barrows was again one of the first responders. She, too, had known the crash victim well. Morrisette got the news while he was in jail and called Barrows to find out what had happened. When he got out, she took him to the crash site, and they stood together, mourning.
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In March, there was another sweep of the encampment. Staff from HOT were on site to ask everyone if they wanted shelter. Morrisette began to blow off the HOT worker, as he always did, when Barrows intervened.
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“Just talk to the guy and see what he has to offer,” she urged him. It was a room at the Monarch, a hotel on Geary Street. “Ronnie, that’s one of the best places to go,” she said. It perfectly met his needs: He’d have a single room with a TV and his own bathroom with a shower. There weren’t a ton of rules — and he could bring Joi.
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Too tired to keep fighting, Morrisette wearily agreed. He filled two large duffel bags — all he was allowed to bring — and Barrows drove him down to the Monarch. The room was comfortable, but it felt strange to be inside. “I’m going to die in that room,” Morrisette told me a few days after moving in last spring.
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Indeed, going inside is “a huge adjustment,” says Cate Rudy, who as a caseworker for [Downtown Streets Team](https://www.streetsteam.org/) helped Morrisette get settled. “You’re going from constant fight-or-flight into a space where, all of a sudden, it’s quiet.”
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To ease the transition, Barrows stopped by regularly or met Morrisette at parks to take a walk or grab a doughnut. She was pleased to see how much healthier and stronger he seemed. The longtime cough was gone. “He seemed more relaxed, like his nervous system got a break, like he could rest his head and feel safe at night. It makes a huge difference,” she said. “He wasn’t as angry; he wasn’t as on edge.”
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All seemed to be going well. But in September, Morrisette got into a fight with staff at the Monarch and was evicted. “It was devastating,” Barrows said. Because she was out of town dealing with a family crisis, she couldn’t intervene or help him lodge an appeal.
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> ‘I’m biased,’ Barrows admitted. ‘But some zero-tolerance policies result in this revolving door that isn’t serving anybody.’
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It angered her that one bout of bad behavior could cost him so dearly. Given his background and mental health issues, the Monarch should have cut him more slack, she thought. “I’m biased,” she admitted. “But some zero-tolerance policies result in this revolving door that isn’t serving anybody.”
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Morrisette was back to living outside, this time in a borrowed RV. It was cramped and decrepit but warmer and drier than a tent. When I asked if he wanted to pursue housing again, he answered, bluntly, “Why would I?”
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With plenty of others who actively wanted help, Barrows let Morrisette slip off her radar. Until last month, when she ran into him again. He was in a bad way. He’d become seriously sick and had such trouble breathing that he’d called for an ambulance himself. He was rushed to Zuckerberg San Francisco General, where doctors found he was so weakened that they put him into an induced coma for nine days to give his body time to recover. While he was in the hospital, his RV was stolen. He told Barrows he was staying with friends, but he hoped she could help him apply again for housing. And of course, she said she would.
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Despite all the obstacles and the ways the system fails people, Barrows knew it’s possible to get even the most intractably unhoused person inside.
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Kaine was proof of that.
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Kaine holds a walking stick he crafted from a fallen branch in Golden Gate Park. | Source: Amanda Andrade-Rhoades/The Standard
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The keys to Kaine's room at the Allen Hotel. | Source: Amanda Andrade-Rhoades/The Standard
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Ten months after moving to the Civic Center Navigation Center, Kaine obtained [permanent supportive housing](https://hsh.sfgov.org/about/research-and-reports/hrs-data/vacancies-in-permanent-supportive-housing/) at the Allen Hotel, an SRO on Market Street. Barrows continued to stay in touch. In early 2024, she learned he was in danger of losing the general assistance benefits that cover his $165 monthly rent due to a bureaucratic snafu. He’d missed two appointments to clear up the problem, and Barrows was determined not to let him miss another. To make sure of that, she accompanied him to the [County Adult Assistance Programs](https://www.sfhsa.org/services/financial-assistance/county-adult-assistance-programs-caap) office. “It was so difficult to get him \[into supportive housing\], the last thing we want is for him to come out and have to restart everything,” she says. “You have to commit to that kind of intensive work.”
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Certainly, it has helped Kaine stay inside. He remains at the Allen and hopes to move to a bigger place with a kitchen. And though it doesn’t happen as much as he’d like, he still visits Golden Gate Park when he’s able.
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On a recent trip to Hellman Hollow, he stepped onto the meadow, looked around with a smile, and sighed, “Ah, I miss it. And it misses me.”
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---
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