On wet days like this, when the wind whips up waves on the channel and the trees of Treadwell drip steady on the little dog and I, the forest seem to be eating the ruins of the old mining town. Water glistening on an old iron rail directs attention to the way it curves and then dives into a live spruce tree. Rain soaked moss fills the crevices of vents and covers concrete walls. Better keep moving little poodle-mix, before the woods claim you.