Harm reduction in Pendleton sometimes begins with a folding table in a parking lot.
On a recent March day, Crescencia Witherspoon and Brandy Anderson of the Eastern Oregon Center for Independent Living offered harm reduction supplies at a Salvation Army center in downtown Pendleton, where the charity serves a hot lunch daily. The foot traffic was brisk and EOCIL tried to catch patrons before they left with their food.
Witherspoon and Anderson offered clean needles, overdose reversing medication and condoms to anyone who wanted them. Witherspoon took down personal information but anonymized some identifying details. She said EOCIL wants to make sure their clients aren鈥檛 identified if they face a court subpoena.
Some people took the supplies and went but others stayed and chatted. For those who stayed, EOCIL staff asked about other things they needed. Over the span of an hour, Anderson and Witherspoon gathered requests for housing, mental health services and help getting veteran identification. Witherspoon said family members often contact EOCIL with messages for their unhoused relatives and staff will pass it along if they see them.
This is the essence of harm reduction, Witherspoon said. By providing people with some tools for survival, she said, EOCIL has a chance at establishing the kind of trust that could change the trajectory of addiction.
鈥淭hey鈥檙e receiving connection, they鈥檙e receiving education, they鈥檙e receiving resources,鈥� she said. 鈥淪ometimes they鈥檙e getting food from our food pantry. These are the same people who now have months, days, years, and sobriety because they were able to connect with a human being who didn鈥檛 judge them.鈥�
Witherspoon didn鈥檛 have any experience in addiction treatment when she started doing harm reduction work. She was working at a bank when the pandemic shut down her branch, leading to a friend recommending she apply to EOCIL.
But she鈥檚 now a believer in harm reduction, a practice that epitomizes the spirit of Measure 110, the 2020 law that decriminalized drugs and directed funding toward mental health and addiction treatment.
While Oregon lawmakers ended the state鈥檚 experiment with drug decriminalization earlier this year, the pipeline of funding created under Measure 110 remains, sending millions of dollars across the state to get people out of destructive cycles of addiction and into housing.
Even though the idea of harm reduction under Measure 110 remains unpopular in Eastern Oregon 鈥� the majority of voters rejected the measure in 2020, and many regional politicians praised its gutting 鈥� EOCIL staff members believe they can carry on its intent. The group intends to continue using Measure 110 funding to offer harm reduction services and low-barrier housing, even after drug possession becomes a criminal offense again in September.
Whatever scrutiny they may attract, EOCIL said it has a track record of success, especially in a region where the safety net for addiction treatment is either thin or nonexistent.
Detox facility
Just weeks before the Legislature agreed to start rolling back Measure 110, state Rep. Greg Smith 鈥� a Republican representing a large chunk of Eastern Oregon 鈥� held a town hall in Boardman to gather local opinion.
A self-described 鈥渃oncerned citizen鈥� used her time to spotlight the unhoused people who lived in her Hermiston neighborhood. She said she didn鈥檛 let her children go outside because there were drug users living in a local park鈥檚 baseball dugout.
鈥淲hen you鈥檙e high, you can鈥檛 decide what鈥檚 right for you,鈥� she said. 鈥淵ou need to go to jail.鈥�
The woman didn鈥檛 want Oregon to return to its pre-Measure 110 status quo because she felt like there were too many people 鈥渋n crisis,鈥� but she especially disliked the idea of harm reduction, 鈥渁 crime all in its own.鈥�
But it was harm reduction, and specifically the services offered by EOCIL, that Marco Carrillo credits for saving his life.
Carrillo started smoking cannabis at age 9, using methamphetamine at 13 and considered himself an addict by the time he was 19, according to EOCIL鈥檚 . At 35, he was resolute when he entered a rehab facility in Pendleton, but nervous about what would happen to his life when he left the facility and lost the structure it had provided him.
Carrillo was born and raised in Ontario, the son of a social worker mother and a father who worked in the fields. He said he grew up in a stable environment, but there 鈥渨as not a lot of love鈥� at home. He started running with gangs as he grew older, both selling and using drugs.
He spent much of his teens and 20s in and out of jail, getting arrested in Ontario or on the other side of the Snake River in Payette, Idaho. Carrillo said incarceration did not cut off his access to drugs. He smuggled in and sold weed, meth and heroin behind bars.
鈥淚t鈥檚 no difference,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he only thing that鈥檚 different about doing that out here and being in there is that you鈥檙e behind the cell. That鈥檚 it.鈥�
EOCIL behavior specialist Carrie Luke, working on the other side of the bars, saw the ways drugs slipped into prisons. Prior to working in mental health, Luke worked for 10 years in the state Department of Corrections.
鈥淲hat I largely saw over the years was people recidivating at higher rates once they were incarcerated for substance use-type crimes,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 sending people to criminal school. It鈥檚 ineffective. It is a complete failure.鈥�
Luke attributed Oregon鈥檚 struggles with drug addiction not to Measure 110 but to federal cuts to mental health services that began in the 1980s. As federal and state governments poured more resources into law enforcement and prisons as a response to drug epidemics, the money for behavioral health shrank.
Drug decriminalization simply laid bare what鈥檚 existed for a long time, Luke said. But now, drug use was happening out in the open instead of behind the walls of a prison.
鈥淲hen it was criminalized, it鈥檚 easy to sweep under the rug,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 easy to forget about. It鈥檚 easy to overlook what鈥檚 happening in the darkness. And I think this brings it to light.鈥�
When Carrillo tired of the toll drugs were taking on his life, he looked to EOCIL for help. Carrillo had been using their clean needle program and one day last fall he showed up looking to get clean.
EOCIL arranged for a ride to a detox center in Pendleton the same day he made his request. After a week in detox, he found a bed at a rehabilitation facility. He said he spent the following weeks taking classes, going to counseling and cutting hair, his 鈥済ift from God.鈥� He was diagnosed with a mental disorder and started properly medicating, a move he thinks would鈥檝e helped him achieve sobriety years ago if he had started earlier.
Several months into his recovery, Carrillo said his family was one of the main reasons he is motivated to stay sober today. EOCIL and harm reduction specialist Amador Perez saved his life, he said, and he now wants to become a bilingual drug counselor to serve the region鈥檚 Spanish speakers. He felt like he could make an impact with drug users because he鈥檚 lived that life.
鈥淚 let God drive my car,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ecause I know when I drive, I wreck.鈥�
Transitional housing
Before EOCIL started turning it into transitional housing, the downtown Pendleton home it bought had a reputation.
鈥淚t was actually apartments that somebody had for years and years and years and really didn鈥檛 put any money into,鈥� EOCIL housing services director Jeff Williams said. 鈥漈hey were really rough. It was kind of where people that used substances rented because it was so cheap.鈥�
This housing represents one of the primary investments from the money EOCIL received through Measure 110. EOCIL鈥檚 vision is to turn the dilapidated home into a place of recovery, without drawing a hard line about whether their tenants still use drugs.
When it鈥檚 completed this spring, EOCIL will offer four units right next to the nonprofit鈥檚 Pendleton office, where residents can continue to access the organization鈥檚 harm reduction and mental health services.
There are a small number of other transitional housing units and shelter beds in Pendleton, but EOCIL is unique in allowing residents to still use drugs while staying in housing. There will be rules: no long-term guests, no parties, no regular calls for the police. But drug use and the occasional fallout that entails, like repairable damage to the property, won鈥檛 be a dealbreaker.
Before they offered their own housing, Williams, who is in recovery himself, said the group sometimes struggled to place clients in existing housing because of rigid requirements. He said housing, whether a tenant is sober or not, can provide a person with the self-esteem they need to seek recovery, or at the very least, live well with their addiction.
鈥淐lients feel they don鈥檛 deserve it,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 because they鈥檝e been beat down by society so bad that they don鈥檛 feel like they鈥檙e worth anything. Society looks at them as an eyesore in the community.鈥�
EOCIL is going all-in on expanding low-barrier housing in the region. The group is also creating similar apartments in Ontario.
Demand is already high for the Pendleton apartments, too. As of late February, Williams said EOCIL鈥檚 waiting list already had 23 names on it.
Harm reduction table
The end of drug decriminalization isn鈥檛 likely to make harm reduction work in Eastern Oregon any easier. Outreach efforts in The Dalles have only gotten more difficult since St. Vincent de Paul shut down its ministry building.
The Catholic charity provided meals, supplies and other services to the unhoused at a central location for nearly four decades. But last year over nuisance violations related to dozens of arrests near its building, spurring the organization to shut down to avoid a legal battle. The charity remained closed as of mid-April.
St. Vincent de Paul鈥檚 services had been a boon to EOCIL, which regularly set up a harm reduction table at a nearby park during meal days. Without a central point of contact, EOCIL harm reduction specialist Lupita Castillo and housing navigator Sindy Campos spend a lot of time in the car trying to meet a clientele spread far and wide across the city.
On a cloudy March day, Castillo and Campos parked their car at a dead end street as Interstate 84 thrummed to the east. The pair hiked down a goat trail, crossed a live set of train tracks and walked into an encampment in the shadow of a new Google data center construction project. A web of walking paths connected a neighborhood of tents and shacks. There weren鈥檛 many residents there that day. Castillo said a woman in the encampment called Mom used to act as a leader for the community, but after her home burned down in a propane fire, she found a permanent housing opportunity and moved out. The area now feels like it has a lot less structure, she said.
Castillo and Campos chatted with some residents, passed by some homes burnt down by propane fire accidents and picked up any used needles they spotted. Later in the day, they scanned roadsides, parking lots, strip malls and other areas where their clients might stay.
Castillo said the roots of her career in harm reduction started three years ago when a friend died after mistaking fentanyl for OxyContin. And then more friends started falling.
鈥淎ll the people around us were dying and there was nothing that we could do to stop it. We were just watching them die,鈥� she said.
When another friend died from an overdose the day she got out of jail, Castillo decided to get involved in advocacy. She organized an overdose awareness walk and started advocating to bring harm reduction to The Dalles. EOCIL hired her to do that work full-time in 2023.
On the day they were out, the work was slow. It was hard to find people who they knew were out there and needed assistance.
Castillo said even on days when her work is challenging, she keeps in mind a very basic measurement of success for the people they do reach.
鈥淜eeping them from dying,鈥� she said. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the biggest thing.鈥�
EOCIL believes it鈥檚 saving lives, and even if drugs are likely to remain criminalized in Oregon for a long time to come, staffers said they have no intent of slowing down the progress they鈥檝e already made.
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