After   a  while  the   500-year-old   village  became    a  secret,
carved  into  the wall of the forest where it  met    the  Pacific,
eleven  long   houses   and  their  racks   of   drying  fish,  their
dogs.  No  roads  to  this town, only boats and the memory of
boaters.  Blankets  made  from  woodpecker  feathers, cattail
fluff,  cedar  bark  and  dog   hair  woven  into a plaid pattern.

At   least   that’s  what  I remember of the museum’s diorama.
When  the   mud  came  down  the  mountain and covered the
village,  no  one  had  lived  there  for  years.  It  was  a  boater
who  remembered,  after   a  while,  that the village was gone,
and   also  that  it  had  once  existed. Archaeologists  brought
garden  hoses  to wash the mud off, and hooked the hoses up

to the sea. Some of what had been preserved in the mud  was
destroyed  that  day  by  the   water  pressure,  and  then later
most   else was ruined by the wind and rain, but at least for  a
few  weeks  they  could  hold  the  bones   in  their  hands. The
archaeologists brought their  dogs,  they  lived  there a while.