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On Ash Wednesday in the new millennium's first year, the earth deep beneath Puget Sound slipped. Some thirty miles below Anderson Island, just off the Nisqually River's delta, a piece of the planet's crust fractured and slipped a meter or so, and sent out pulses of energy the equivalent of about thirtyfive Hiroshima-sized atomic bombs. The resulting earthquake was felt from northern Oregon to British Columbia and had major effects throughout the region; in Seattle, the temblor damaged many of the city's cultural icons. The world headquarters of Starbucks shed its cladding, while at the Windows XP operating system's unveiling in the Westin Hotel's Grand Ballroom, Microsoft founder Bill Gates was interrupted midspeech by falling light fixtures. Perhaps most frighteningly, the Space Needle rang like a titanic bell as it swayed from side to side. Despite the low number of human casualties-just one person died, from a heart attack-the region's infrastructure was heavily impacted. Only in late 2004 did the Washington State Capitol Building, whose stone columns were shoved out of plumb, reopen to the public. Meanwhile, the future of the Alaskan Way Viaduct on Seattle's waterfront, sent listing by the quake, remains among the city's most hotly debated topics. 1 This kind of thing had happened before. On 13 April 1949, a quake with nearly the same epicenter registered a 7.1 on the magnitude scale (in 1 Coll Thrush is assistant professor of history at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, where he teaches indigenous, environmental, cultural, and world history. He is the author of Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place and is working on two books: an environmental and cultural history of indigenous and newcomer food systems on the Northwest Coast and a cultural history of indigenous travelers to