Among the motley crew of inhabitants that made up the population of Death Valley were the strange breed of men known as "desert rats." These lonely, forgotten men pitched their little camps in the middle of the scorching desert, and went out each day in search of gold, convinced that somewhere underneath all that sand and cactus there lay a hoard, richer than the '49 Strike or the Comstock Lode. They lived literally like the rats they were named for—in poverty and filth—waiting for that pot of gold at the end of a desert rainbow. But most of them died as poor as they lived, never latching on to that dream of wealth which gold would bring.

Aaron Winters was a young desert rat, living in his shack in Ash Meadows—but Aaron had poetry in his soul. He wooed and won an accomplished and beautiful Spanish-American girl away from other suitors, and from her wealthy family. He told her he loved her "as sure as I know shade in the blazing sun, or green things among rocks and sand." He took her back with him across the desert to his adobe hut, and there the young bride was terrified by the stark poverty and the loneliness of the place.

She begged Aaron to give up his search and return with her to her parents' home, but he persisted. Their story veered close to tragedy, as Rosie grew bitter and Aaron apologetic. But one day Aaron went out in search of a new ore. The test for it was alcohol and sulphuric acid. If she burned green, it would mean great wealth for Aaron and Rosie—and she did burn green. For, in 1882, Winters discovered a rich strike of borax ore in Death Valley.