ALTOONA -- Michelle hauled the heavy trash bag up the stairs of the homeless shelter. Inside it was nearly everything she owned, and she struggled under the weight, her grip tearing holes in the plastic.

Michelle's daughter, Brianna, 8, waited at the top of the stairs, anxious to see her toys again, and ready to change out of the clothes she had been wearing for three days.

	V.W.H. Campbell, Post-Gazette
	Carol Bravin is director of the Emergency Project Shelter House in Altoona, Blair County. The shelter offers housing for about a month to anyone, except single men, who needs temporary housing because of financial problems.

The two had arrived at the Emergency Shelter Project Family House in Altoona last Sunday night, having left Michelle's boyfriend and their home behind.

"He's a heroin addict, and that ain't a life for me or for her," said Michelle, 31, who requested that her last name not be used.

If not for the 16-bed shelter, the only facility in Blair County that houses homeless families, they would be "out on the streets, literally," Michelle said. But here, in this nondescript house where no one but staff answers the door, the two will be safe and warm for the next 27 days.

This is what rural homelessness looks like.

The stereotype of homeless people -- transient single men roaming the streets or sleeping under bridges, mentally ill or drug-addicted, begging for change, their lives contained in a shopping cart -- does not conform to rural reality. Rural homelessness is the invisible kind, experts say.

Out here, shelters are few and far between. Public services are spare. Homeless people in rural areas are more likely to be sleeping in cars, campers, crowded or dilapidated structures, or on the couches of friends and relatives. According to the Rural Poverty Research Center, they are more likely to be women, married with children, currently working and homeless for the first time. The Rural Poverty Research Center is an institute spearheaded by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, which examines the causes of rural poverty and helps to shape public policies concerning the issue.

Often thought to be an urban phenomenon, homelessness is an issue even in such places as rural Bedford County, where cows outnumber people. There is one shelter in Bedford County, and it is designated for abused women. Somerset County has one small shelter for families; cases of domestic abuse are referred to Cambria County. Blair County's emergency men's shelter in Altoona burned down in 2004; its replacement has yet to open its doors.

"It's rough around here," said Angelo Donia, a transitional housing case manager for Somerset County's Tableland Services. "Around here, they're not considered homeless because they're not sleeping on a storm grate. You won't believe the places I pull these guys out of."

The rural homeless might be invisible, but their ranks are growing. Social service agencies in predominantly rural counties report drastic increases in requests for aid from the Homeless Assistance Program and other services.

In Somerset County, the number of people receiving HAP aid has spun steadily upward from 165 in 1996-97 to 685 in 2003-04, according to state Department of Public Welfare statistics.

"The definition of homelessness in an urban area is people sleeping in boxes and in alleys. We really don't have that," said Jennifer Vought, community services program director for Somerset County's Tableland Services. "[Here], they try to hide that they're homeless. They go into abandoned houses. They pull their vehicles into junk yards to disguise their situation. It's definitely a big difference."

Sister Celeste Ciesielka, a caseworker for Catholic Charities, which serves the Altoona-Johnstown diocese and often refers homeless people to the Emergency Shelter Project, said the shelter was full most of the time.

Bev Patton, of Love Inc., a faith-based agency in Bedford County, must sometimes refer homeless people to a rescue mission in Cumberland, Md. Love Inc. has gotten several calls from elderly people who can't afford to pay their taxes, and whose homes were going to be auctioned in a sheriff's sale.

The causes of rural and urban homelessness are the same: poverty, a lack of affordable housing, mental illness and drug and alcohol abuse. But the rural poor are hamstrung by transportation issues, such as high gas prices, infrequent bus service, geographic isolation from job centers, and a lack of health and social services.

Blair County's poverty rate has hovered from 11 percent to 13 percent in recent years, higher than the state average of about 10 percent. In 1999, Blair, Armstrong and Fayette counties had more than 20 clients per 1,000 residents receiving homeless assistance, double the statewide ratio. That same year, according to an analysis by the Center for Rural Pennsylvania, rural areas had one emergency shelter unit for every 130 residents, while urban areas enjoyed the benefits of one unit for every 17 residents.

According to a 2002 study by the National Health Care for the Homeless Council, there are fewer actual homeless people in rural areas than in urban centers. But the proportionate incidence of homelessness in some rural counties is equal to or greater than what is found in major metropolitan areas.

The study concluded that rural homeless people are less well-educated than their urban counterparts, but more likely to be employed, albeit in part-time or seasonal work with no benefits. They are more likely to take cash assistance from friends, and less likely to receive it from the government.

And because small, rural communities tend to be less socially diverse and more traditional, residents place a premium on ideals of self-sufficiency. As a result, rural homelessness is often less anonymous and carries a bigger social stigma.

Michelle feels she cannot depend on relatives to help her get back on her feet.

"My family is the type who says, 'You did it to yourself, now find a way out,' " she said.

For now, her way out starts with the Emergency Shelter Project. The rooms are clean and spartan, with small sinks, roll-away cots and cribs, old sofas slip-covered in bedsheets and baskets of toys.

"The kids don't have anything else, but they do have toys," Director Carol Bravin said. "It's not fancy, but it's adequate."

Lists of house rules are posted on nearly every wall, mirror and major appliance. Some residents, accustomed to independence, chafe at the curfews and chores.

Heroin use is a growing problem in Altoona, said Ms. Bravin, who has been robbed at gunpoint for drug money. Drugs play a major role in Blair County's homeless problem. The shelter does random drug testing; all clients must be clean in order to stay there.

A few years ago, a woman was staying at the shelter with her young son and concealing a drug habit.

"She was really addicted -- 12 bags a day," Ms. Bravin said. "Every morning, as soon as she would wake up, she would tie a belt around her arm and shoot up."

One day, the woman walked into the shelter's kitchen and saw her son at the table, tying something around his arm, a child's innocent mimicry of his mother.

"That's when it hit her," she said.

During the 30 days families are sheltered here, the Emergency Shelter Project works with other social service agencies, both governmental and faith-based, to help families with whatever they need: rental assistance or transitional housing, employment services, drug and alcohol counseling, and "life skills" training, such as cooking and budgeting.

Families come to Altoona from places such as Claysburg, population 1,503; Roaring Spring, population 2,341; and other small farming towns in Blair County to receive these services, said Natalie Hockenberry, case manager for the shelter.

"For the most part, they've already exhausted this couch and that couch, this floor and that floor," she said.

But these services are in demand. Tyrone and Hollidaysburg have a limited amount of public housing. The Section 8 program, administered through the Altoona Housing Authority, is not accepting applications, Mrs. Hockenberry said. Their wait list is "well over 1,000 people."

There are also no openings for transitional housing, a two-year program in which recipients pay 30 percent of their income toward a subsidized rent. There is heavy competition for these slots, and many people have a poor history of paying their utilities, due to a combination of low income and shoddy rental housing.

"One woman had a house with a hole in the roof," Mrs. Hockenberry said. "Her utilities were $600 a month; the heat went out the hole, and the gas company shut her gas off."

Rental assistance programs, which give clients their first month's rent plus security deposits, is sometimes not enough to get a low-income homeless person back on track. Many of the available jobs in Altoona are in retail or restaurants making $6 or $7 an hour.

"It's a struggle to get them employment that would pay the $400 a month rent," she said. "After the first month, you really have to watch your pennies, which is difficult when you have little education."

With such a thin margin of error, a lot of people are one paycheck, one illness, one gas bill or one bad decision away from being homeless, Ms. Bravin said, and she doesn't see it getting any better.

She opened the door to one of the shelter's empty bedrooms. The woman who stays in this room works full time, she said. On the bedside table was a waitress' check tablet, stamped with the logo of a nearby chain restaurant.

"The people we have here want to work," Ms. Bravin said. "For the most part, they're all employable."