One day I joined Smokey on his daily tour of campgrounds and we had a marvelous lunch with the owners of the so-called hotel in Wildrose Canyon. I had not viewed Death Valley from a high vantage-point and tried to talk Smokey into taking me to Dantes Viewpoint. That was out of the question (distance and time) but Smokey knew another place where I could get a spectacular view of the Valley.

Years of lack of maintenance had turned the road to Mahogany Flat into a challenge for most drivers. However, Smokey successfully maneuvered his truck between, among, and over the numerous boulders sticking their heads thorough the roadbed. We hiked a short distance up the trail to Telescope Peak and he gave me a thorough orientation to his interpretation of the routes the Death Valley emigrants used. He explained how the Jayhawkers and Brier family had exited the valley through Jayhawker Canyon. Late in the day, he took me on a short hike and showed me a boulder with the inscription "W. B. Roods, 1849" and he told me of a second inscription in Jayhawker Canyon.

I told Smokey I wanted to follow the trail of the Jayhawkers over Pinto Peak and invited him to join me but he could not go on the hike.

On the face of it, it seemed to be a simple task tracing the Jayhawkers. I made a day-hike up Jayhawker Canyon and marveled at the pioneer inscriptions on the basalt boulders near Jayhawker Spring and I found the "WBR 1849" inscription. I spent a couple hours there and continued to the headwater of the canyon where it reaches a saddle near the summit of Pinto Peak. When I got to the saddle, I realized I had spent too much time at the spring looking for additional inscriptions. The sun was low in the west as I made a rapid retreat down the canyon. Soon the sun set and I was still a couple miles from the spring. There was no moon that night so I had to bivouac. Fortunately, before it was pitch dark, I gathered some firewood from the surrounding brush and made a small fire that gave me temporary protection from the cold wind that descended the canyon. As the coals lost their ruby-red glow, I felt the presence of those early pioneers who struggled through this same canyon many decades ago.

Years and years have now passed since my venture along the ’49ers trail. However, as I type these words, many details are recalled with absolute clarity. Before falling asleep, I thought I could hear the cry of Mrs. Brier’s children begging for water. I too was in need of water but I thought I could refill my canteen from Jayhawker Spring the next morning. However, sleep did not come because I remembered I was to have dinner with Smokey that tonight and by then he would be certain some tragedy had befallen me.

I spent a miserable night envisioning the Park Service organizing a rescue mission. At the first glow of dawn, I began a hasty retreat down the canyon and forgot my canteen near my dead campfire. As I passed the spring, I decided not to quench my thirst. The sun was not shining in the canyon so the temperature was mild. As I exited the canyon, I heard a familiar say, "Where the hell have you been?"

Fortunately Smokey had faith in my wilderness savvy; he did not organize a search party but came looking for me. The next thing he said was "It looks like you need this," and swung his canteen into my eager grasp. He gave me a stern fatherly lecture as we picked our way through the boulder- strewn wash. When we reached his house, his wife also lectured me.

I told Smokey I wanted to continue tracing the Jayhawker route and wanted to do an overnight hike up Jayhawker Canyon and continue to the summit of Pinto Peak. From there I would head west. Again I invited Smokey to join me but pressing official business kept him from doing so but he had a suggestion. Because I had already hiked Jayhawker Canyon and the only reason for doing so again was to retrieve my canteen, he would loan me his government canteen and drive me to the summit of Pinto Peak the next day.

I accepted his offer and at the break of dawn we headed for Emigrant Pass and turned off the gravel road up a faint dirt road to the summit. The road seemed interminable and after some harrowing experiences with a few boulders and a wet area (where I was obliged to get out and push) we made it to the pass at the headwater of Jayhawker Canyon.

Here Smokey parked his truck and suggested I retreat down the canyon a short distance and continue following the main draw that would take me to the summit. I had my bedroll, food, and water so we shook hands and departed. He said he would meet me somewhere along the highway the following evening. We did not know what canyon I would exit so he said he would drive back and forth until he found me.

We parted and I was soon alone with the Jayhawker and Brier ghosts. In about an hour I broke out of the canyon and to my surprise I saw Smokey’s truck parked next to the pile of rocks that capped the summit of the mountain. It was late in the afternoon and a slight wind was picking up. Smokey had forgotten to remind me "to keep my fluid level up" so he drove to the summit to give me this life-saving advice. He then went to the truck and pulled out a familiar shaped "canteen" and we sat at the base of the rock and topped off our fluid levels.

Before the sun fell behind Mt. Whitney, Smokey and I parted. He hadn’t gone more than a quarter mile when I remembered the quagmire that halted us on our ascent. I tried to catch him but he was now navigating the road with aplomb and soon vanished in a cloud of dust.

I decided to camp on the summit, which meant I could not have a fire because there was no woody vegetation within sight. Nothing in my pack required cooking so I snacked and prepared my bed. I have traveled throughout the world and have seen many magnificent sunsets but none equaled the one God gave me that evening.

I had a hard time sleeping and again imagined I was visited by spirits. This time it was not from children crying; it was the voices of desperate and lost men. I felt certain I was on the trail of the ’49ers and the ever-downward hike tomorrow would be an historical reenactment of the travails the lost and destitute emigrants went through.

I must have fallen asleep because I was gently awakened by someone shaking my shoulder. I sat up in a frightened daze and as my eyes and mind focused, I realized I had been dreaming. There was a faint glow in the east and as soon as I could see my feet, I started down the mountain.

The only thing I knew for certain was I must head west— more correctly westerly. From the summit there is a moderate ridge that headed the direction I wanted to go. I had spent enough time hiking the deserts to know I would be safer on a ridge. Within a mile, the route became steeper and rougher and it was in this area that I wedged my well-worn boot into a crack between two boulders. I fell forward and fortunately my boot released so I did not break my lower leg. However, unfortunately I ripped my sole from the bottom of my boot and it was only held on by a few nails in the heal. I cut away part of the bootlace and lashed my sole to the tattered toe of the boot.

When I reached the bottom of the treacherous ridge, I made a small pile of rocks so anyone following me would know I had been there. I was now on a sharp ridge that broke into canyons both right and left.

I hadn’t gone more than a hundred meters when I came upon a rusty ox shoe and an equally rusty knife. This was certainly a godsend because here were the nails I needed to make a temporary repair of my boot. There was no shortage of rocks in the immediate area so I found two that would suffice as an anvil and hammer. This precious find came just in time because I had worn through the lace and my sole was flapping again.

I threw the ox shoe down and continued westerly when it struck me: What the hell was an ox shoe doing here on this remote and forbidding ridge?  Before I could answer my question, I noticed a small cave 50 meters away. The sun was shining directly into it and I could plainly see a box, or what I thought was a box.

By now I was wondering what Smokey and I drank the night before. Was I seeing things?  Assuredly not, because my sole was not flapping. I looked around thinking someone was pulling a prank on me but no one was in sight.

I went to the cave and found the box was a chest that had toppled from its perch of three rocks imbedded in the dusty bottom of the cave. I had to stop and talk to myself for several minutes. Try as I may, I could not convince myself I was seeing things. There at my feet were gold and silver coins, and barely visible under the lid of the chest I could see the top of a porcelain bowl and its broken handle.

I dropped to the ground and picked up one of the gold coins and tried to take a bite thinking it was one of those disgusting American chocolates wrapped in gold foil. It was not chocolate!  My wildest dreams were soon dashed— the chest was not filled with gold and silver coins. I left the coins in place and slowly righted the chest. There was dust on everything and I slowly and meticulously dusted and cleaned every item. I made a complete inventory of the chest’s contents but sad to say I lost it before the end of summer.

A letter and a manifest gave me the identity of the person who cached the chest. Obviously William Robinson thought he would retrieve it some day. At the time I was not well versed in Death Valley history to know who Robinson was. But since the second discovery, made by Mr. Freeman, I have learned a great deal about this man who suffered the same trail that almost took my life.

I knew there was a grand story here and my publisher would advance me a tidy sum for the ensuing book. Obviously no one had stumbled upon the chest since it was cached in January 1850. Had anyone done so, they would have taken the gold and silver coins.

At this point I did something I have never before revealed— I took the gold coins and left the silver and copper coins in the porcelain bowl and carefully placed it in the chest with all the other items.

In a daze that was like a London fog, I flipped a gold coin to decide what canyon to descend. The left canyon (the southern one) won and I continued my trek down it. For some distance the going was easy. Slowly the canyon narrowed and I began to have second thoughts about the coin’s choice.

I was in a dream when again a ghost seemed to awaken me— just in time, for one step more and I would have disappeared into a declivity from which there was no return— a narrow dry fall that was so tortuously twisted I could not see the bottom. By now I was exhausted so I sat down and pondered my choices. I could retreat and try the other canyon, but that might be more treacherous. As I pondered my plight again, I thought I heard voices and there high on the steep hillside far above me I could faintly see a man, or what I thought was a man. He seemed to beckon me.

I did not then, and I do not now believe in the paranormal but even so I decide to follow my vision. Up the steep cliff I clambered and soon found a route to the west that safely took me around the dry falls.

When I reached the canyon bottom I estimated I had only an hour of daylight left so I doubled my pace and just before darkness prevailed, I came in sight of the Towne Pass highway. My luck continued because parked there at the 4000-foot elevation sign along the road was Smokey smoking his pipe.

I don’t know who was the happier. After I gulped down copious amounts of water, he wanted to know all the details of the trip, which I knew I could not relate. To do so would brand me as a quack and a thief. I gave him a step by step summary of the route but I did not tell him why my boot was oddly patched together nor did I tell him about the knife, ox shoe and chest.

That night I realized what I had done. I had compromised one of the most important stories in the annals of Death Valley lore. I had very limited money of my own, certainly not enough to buy the pair of boots I had exchanged the gold coins for. I would have to somehow get the money to buy the boots and buy back the gold coins from the cobbler. My luck the past week and a half had been extremely favorable so I decided to try my hand at the "one armed bandits."  I took all the money I had and went to the first teller and exchanged the 4 American dollars for quarters. I had never gambled so I walked the floor of the casino carefully observing the proper techniques to use.

I soon concluded to be an avid gambler you had to smoke and be grossly overweight— neither of these attributes fit me. Before long I saw a machine that had a strange glow or aura. I went to the machine and nervously placed one quarter in the receptacle and gingerly pulled the handle. A loud bell began to ring and the light on top of the machine began to blink. My first impulse was to run because I was certain I had broken it. Immediately quarters began belching from the machine’s bowls and kept flowing until they spilled on the floor. Within moments a crowd gathered around me and wanted to rub my hand in a foolish attempt to garner some luck.

An employee of the casino soon arrived and told me to clear the machine. I gawked at him and told him I didn’t know what he meant. He smiled, took one of my quarters, put it back in the machine and told me to pull the handle, which I did. The same thing happened again, and again people began rubbing my hands. Another employee arrived, opened the machine, and pulled a couple wires. By now I seemed to be ankle deep in quarters, which pleased me.

Despite encouragement to continue gambling from those surrounding me, I gathered together several hundred dollars of quarters and went to the cobbler hoping to buy back the gold coins but the store was closed. I had exchanged a shinny one-dollar coin, dated 1849 and a five-dollar coin dated 1834 for the boots. I was in a quandary and felt my luck had run out.

Across the street was a pawnshop and I suspected the proprietor might have gold coins. He did. However, the only dollar coin he had was soldered into a necklace and the five-dollar coin he had matched the year of the coin I traded for the boots. After I paid quite a stack of quarters for the two coins, I asked the pawnbroker if he had a torch. He did and he would unsolder the coin from its mounting but first I had to shell our another pile of quarters. After he cooled the coin, I tried to sell him the mounting. He said he didn’t want it and would throw it away for me. I met my ride and we return to Death Valley.

The dollar coin was a poor substitute for the shinny new coin I had traded for the boots. The five-dollar coin was a close match and the date was the same.

About sundown, I was again with Smokey and I told him of my extraordinary experience in gambling. I also told him a lie when I said the mass of quarters that engulfed my feet had allowed me to buy a new pair of boots. I told Smokey I very much wanted to hike another canyon off Pinto Peak so he agreed to drive me to the summit the next morning. We both figured I could make the trip in one day if we got an early start.

We were on the road by 4:00 a.m. and reached the summit by dawn. This time I did not top off my fluid level. I arrived at the cave without incident and opened the chest and began to replace the gold coins. Just at the last moment, I checked the date on the dollar coin and was chagrinned to see "1853" glaring at me.

This would not do so I took my knife and carefully obliterated the "5" and part of the "3" hoping the next lucky person would deduce the coin was struck in 1843.

Again I went through the chest and carefully copied the letter and list of items Robinson had inventoried in 1850. I suspected the strong winds would again topple the chest from its perch so I planned ahead and brought a small bottle of glue for this purpose. After dabbing some glue on the rim of the body of the chest, I closed the lid. Now if winds again toppled the chest from its perch, the contents would not spill on the ground and be blown away. I then took the canyon to the right of the sharp ridge.

Fortunately this canyon was free of major barriers and I was able to circumvent the two dry falls by traversing the right bank of the canyon. "Ghosts did not visit me" during the trek so I concluded this was not the canyon the destitute pioneers used after placing the trunk in the cave.

Smokey was waiting for me when I reached the road. After we parted on the summit, he again got stuck in the mud hole and spent a couple hours extricating the truck.

I may return to Pinto Peak and hike the Brier route as delineated in Southworth’s book. Possibly they too left some of their cherished possessions along the trail. If I can find a cooperative ranger to drive me to the summit of Pinto Peak, I will continue my field research.

In the course of my research, I discovered descendants of William’s brother who are presently living in Oregon. They confided in me many details and showed me another hand written letter that William had sent to Lydia. This letter was given to Lewis Manly somewhere in the desert. Possibly William had a premonition he would not make it to the gold fields. Manly alludes to this letter but does not specifically mention it in his famous book on the Death Valley ’49ers. The descendants also have the transmittal letter from Lewis Manly, which I saw and read.

Because of promises made to the descendants, I can not reveal further family details. However, I am free to explain some of the additional discrepancies that would-be historians have noted. The two photographs are of William’s brother and the brother’s two daughters. These were taken in San Francisco in the late 1860s. The two porcelain bowls are those of William Robinson’s sister-in-law. They were exchanged for the two bowls that once belonged to Mrs. Brier. These bowls were returned to a descendent of the Brier family and their whereabouts are unknown to the Robinsons.

As to the "grub stake," both Lewis Manly’s letter and Robinson’s letter use the words "grub stake."  Both these letters are on fragile paper, apparently torn from an old book. They have been folded and unfolded many times and are falling apart. I bought for the descendants archive-quality Mylar document holders and the letters are now relatively safe from additional deterioration.

Much more was told to me about William’s life and death that I can not now reveal. I can tell you that Lydia died of a broken heart when she received news of William’s death. She died on October 13, 1850 and on her tomb stone is this inscription: "My heart beats with yours."

I am continuing to work with the descendants and they are now willing to donate their artifacts to a major museum. It may take several years to complete the negotiations. In the meantime, they and I hope the above will put to rest the controversies surrounding the treasure chest that Robinson left in the cave on January 2, 1850.

I had planned to write a book detailing my discovery. As of now, my attorney and publisher discourage me from doing so. Now that my innocent tampering with the chest is documented, maybe some day I can step forward with all the information surrounding the Robinson Chest.