A response to rural encampments

In early June of this year, I interviewed a prospective employee who insisted that McCook “had a terrible homeless problem.” I knew that we had a few folks pass through from time to time, but I had not been aware of anything that would approach “terrible.” A couple of weeks later, in a private setting, I heard a city representative discuss a few homeless folks who inhabit lower downtown. A couple of weeks after that, the city announced that Karrer Park was being closed temporarily due to homeless-related incidents.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, I was in the office when a metal-on-metal screech broke the silence, followed by the sound of running water. I checked the building—empty, as expected—then looked out the front door on West E Street. A man was using our outdoor faucet to freshen up, a few backpacks and grocery bags beside him, likely holding the sum of his worldly belongings.

Those can’t all be coincidences. Make no mistake, homelessness is here.

When we think of homelessness, we often picture urban streets lined with tents, cardboard signs, and overflowing shelters, but homelessness isn’t confined to big cities. Increasingly, rural communities—including our own—are seeing the effects of economic hardship, mental illness, addiction, and housing instability in visible, personal ways.

The U.S. Interagency Council on Homelessness (USICH) recently released a roadmap titled “19 Strategies for Communities to Address Encampments Humanely and Effectively.” It’s a thoughtful, experience-based guide not just for large cities with layered bureaucracies, but also for communities like ours—where local leaders wear multiple hats and public resources are stretched thin.

The core message is simple: encampments aren’t solved by moving people along or locking them up, but by offering clear pathways to housing, health services, and support. That may sound aspirational for a rural town with no homeless shelter, no local mental health facility and a law enforcement team that doubles as emergency responders—but the principles still apply.

We don’t have to solve everything to make progress.

In fact, some of USICH’s most actionable recommendations are things we already do well. Rural law enforcement often coordinates with county health agencies, probation officers, and churches. In small towns, cooperation isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity. We know our frequent contacts. We see patterns. We keep notes. And we know that jail, while sometimes necessary, isn’t a sustainable solution.

What USICH urges—and rural communities can build on—is a more deliberate approach: identifying who is passing through, who is a neighbor in crisis, and who is chronically entangled in addiction or untreated illness. From there, we can connect them to state-level resources, use arrest strategically (not reflexively), and engage trusted partners like landlords, clergy, or nonprofits to keep people from falling through the cracks.

We don’t need new housing stock or a full-scale task force. Sometimes, it’s enough to know who might rent a small unit to someone in recovery. None of this is easy or permanent—but it is within reach.

Encampment-like occupations—even temporary ones like the situation in Karrer Park—are difficult to witness and harder to manage, but we are not powerless. With humility, common sense, and a willingness to act, the report shows how rural towns can respond to encampments in ways that are firm, compassionate and consistent with our values.

The full USICH guide is available at usich.gov.