We spend part of this soft day among the Treadwell ruins. It’s all Christmas Day for Aki with her dog’s social interest in who or what has passed before. Rain and grayness force my attention downward and inward like the low marine layer now blocking the view of our smallest mountains. On such walks I expect the profound up but end up settling for discoveries of small beauty.
There is wonder here where more than 100 years ago men and woman forged a community of craftsmen; building and exploiting turbines and pipes and the power they produced to pummel our native rock until it released hidden gold. It all ended when a mine tunnel under Gasteneau Channel collapsed and sea water flooded the works. The builders and miners and those that took care of their physical needs all left, abandoning their city of man to the destructive power of alders and the rain.
We find their most resistant constructions scatters about the alder forest—bent rails, ore carts, great iron wheels, even the chassises of cars built before the U.S. entered World War I. Most emerge from blankets of electric green moss but some relics prefer to rust to their death naked on the forest floor.