Adoptees find last chance on ranch

EUREKA, Mont. — The children saddling up the horses look as if they were cast by Hollywood to play wholesome, athletic kids. But outward appearances don't tell the whole story.

One has molested a sibling. Another has tried to kill the family pet. Lying, stealing, vandalism and fire-setting round out the list of transgressions.

Because their parents no longer can manage them at home, the 24 youngsters — almost all international adoptees — have ended up on a special ranch in Eureka, a remote, rugged corner of northwest Montana.

This is the final stop. Most have logged countless hours in psychiatric units, wilderness programs and residential treatment centers. The goal is that, through intense intervention and structure, their conduct will improve sufficiently so they can go home.

But some never will return, moving on to new families. They are victims of an expanding phenomenon known as adoption disruption, the official term for when parents attempt to return their adoptive children.

"Some parents just can't do it anymore; they're done," said Joyce Sterkel, who runs the Ranch for Kids, a therapeutic boarding school. "It's tragic ... and everyone is a victim."

No one appears to keep data on adoption disruption. While a statistically rare occurrence among the approximately 20,000 foreign-born children adopted by Americans each year, such relinquishment is happening with increasing frequency, experts said.

One Ohio adoption agency reports receiving up to five calls a day from parents about disruptions, up from one or two a month a few years ago.

"No one knew the magnitude of the problem," said Sterkel, 60. "The horror stories just keep on coming." While dissolutions of domestic adoptions are not unheard of, it is among the international population where experts are seeing a most troubling spike.

Why it happens

Experts blame the jump on a confluence of factors.

First, as Americans adopted more children from overseas — the figures almost tripled since 1990 — the numbers with despairing behaviors grew, and these children are hitting adolescence, when their rages are more dangerous.

Moreover, many parents were unprepared for the challenges, either because they were so eager to be Mom and Dad or because agencies glossed over their charges' complex medical histories — or omitted them.

While some people may have undertaken parenthood with unrealistic expectations, more typically they are deeply committed but ill-equipped to cope with profoundly damaged children. Either due to fetal alcohol syndrome, mental illness, attachment disorders — or a combination of all three — the youngsters can't function in a family, though they show no outward signs of disability.

"These kids are the victims of every kind of abuse you can imagine: sexual, physical, emotional," said Sterkel, who may run the only therapeutic school exclusively for adopted children.

Parents receive no hint or preparation for the road ahead, she said. So, when the nuclear family melts down, parents wrestle with a heartbreaking choice: "Do we remove this child ... or do we all go down?"

Sterkel, a nurse and mother of three grown children, knows the struggles personally and professionally.

In the early 1990s, she lived in Russia for two years as part of a humanitarian-relief effort, witnessing the threadbare orphanages. "For the kids, it's about basic, animal survival."

After Sterkel returned to the United States, she couldn't shake the image of Katya, suffering from years of abandonment and neglect. She adopted Katya, then 10, in 1996. Two years later came a Russian boy, Sasha, 14.

The oldest of four, Sasha and his siblings were first adopted by a Colorado family, an arrangement that quickly unraveled. Sasha moved on to a second household, also in Colorado, while his two sisters and a brother were split up and placed in several states. Soon after, Sasha tried to poison his new mother, slipping crushed pills into her sandwich. Charged with felony assault, he was sent to juvenile detention.

"My new mother told me that I should forget them [his siblings], but I couldn't," Sasha, now 23, said recently, sitting in the ranch's cozy kitchen. "I went nuts."

When Sterkel heard his story, she decided to rescue him. The adoption was finalized in 1999. Today, he helps on the ranch, connecting with angry, hard-to-reach kids.

There would be one more son — Michael, now 20 — bringing the brood to six.

Meanwhile, word ricocheted across the country that this Montana woman, who speaks conversational Russian, and her husband, Harry Sutley, could offer a respite to parents in crisis. The phone would ring and before you knew it, the Sterkel/Sutley clan was caring for a dozen or so troubled kids.

A simple plan

In the early days, Sterkel didn't have much of a treatment plan beyond keeping the kids busy.

Today, the program employs 15, but the youngsters — mostly between the ages 12 and 17, but some as young as 4 — live in the same spartan dorms, with their meticulously made beds and family photos on their nightstands.

And the blueprint is unchanged: The route to self-esteem is through teamwork and productivity.

The first half of the day is devoted to academics, followed by chores. On a ranch, cows always need milking, ditches need digging and fences need mending.

The most coveted time is spent with the horses, also known as equine assistance psychotherapy. Push a horse and he'll push back, while hefty doses of kindness, patience and respect usually will yield results. It's a way to connect with aggressive, angry children and nudge them toward new insights. Traditional counseling is available, but only at a parent's request.

"Here, everyday life is therapy," said Bill Sutley, Sterkel's 35-year-old son, an affable jack-of-all-trades, from ranch manager to math teacher.

The typical stay is between six months and one year, although some students stay longer. Tuition ranges between $2,950 and $3,500 a month, for room, board and school.

Since 2004, about 150 children have cycled through, with only six booted out, all within the past year.

Unlike special-needs children adopted from the U.S. foster-care system, no federal subsidies exist for children from overseas. "It takes a lot before Bill and I will cry 'uncle,' " Sterkel said. "But we have the staff to think about."

From here, one-third will return home, while another third — mostly those 16 and older — will move on to Job Corps, an education and vocational-training program run by the U.S. Department of Labor.

The remaining third will discover their parents are relinquishing their rights.

Sometimes, the task of telling a child he'll be joining a new family falls to Sutley, an electrical engineer by training.

"I just say: 'This is not your fault. You have a screwed-up brain.' And then I do my best to explain why the current situation isn't working. I tell them, 'Take something from this. Learn from your experiences.' "