If you think of cows as slow-witted, docile, clumsy creatures that are easily herded, well, you've never met Rich Atmore's cows. They spend most of their time wandering alone in the rugged and brushy hillsides on the outskirts of Ventura, seeing human beings only rarely. So when it comes time to round them up and bring them down to one of the corrals, they are capable of surprising feats of strategy, agility and stubbornness.

"Richard's cows, they are wild sonsabitches," is how Jorge Casian, foreman of a nearby ranch, put it.

I'd heard that gathering cattle on the Atmore ranch was challenging -- the terrain is too rough for vehicles, even all-terrain cycles, so Rich and his cowboys use horses -- but I wanted to get a feel for it myself. So, when it came time for the first gathering of the spring, I asked Rich if he'd lend me a horse so I could follow along and report from the saddle.

I'm not what you would call an experienced rider. I've been on horses before, but mostly under very controlled circumstances -- guided trail rides, brief outings on animals owned by friends. I know how to start, stop and steer, but the finer points of horsemanship are beyond me. Nevertheless, Rich was amenable, and so he saddled up the horse he lets his sons ride (Richie is 9 and George is 6, so that gives you some idea of where my riding skills rank).

"This is Wounded Knee," Rich said as he held the horse so I could mount. I was not sure whether to take the name as a good omen or bad; I still have scars from surgery five months ago to remove torn cartilage from my left knee.

Turned out it was a good omen. Wounded Knee was well-trained, calm and easy to ride. Which is a good thing, because I was soon crashing cross-country through brush taller than a man in pursuit of cows and calves that behaved more like wild mountain goats than like domesticated bovines. The heavy brush battered knees and shins, overhanging trees threatened to knock heads, lush poison oak and abundant ticks added a bit of extra fun, and hidden holes and rocks and small creeks added exciting uncertainty to the horses' footing, so there was much lurching and bouncing.

The ranch is a labyrinth of canyons and gullies eroded into the steep hills. There are a few dirt roads, but the cattle weren't eager to use them. We rode to the far end of the main canyon, climbed atop the ridge at its head, and then began working our way back along the side hills. Cows and calves were largely invisible in the tall, dense brush, but we could hear them and sometimes see them as they began moving ahead of us.

As soon as we drew within a hundred yards or so, the cows began running. But rather than head straight down the canyon toward the corral at its mouth, they kept trying to dodge us. To keep them moving in the right direction meant moving swiftly to head off each escape attempt, during which the cows often charged straight up slopes that seemed improbably vertical, or circled above us and tried to run back up the canyon. The cowboys had no choice but to follow. The cows apparently had determined that any place we wanted them to go was a place they did not want to be.

We lost a few, but eventually managed to herd most of the cattle in the canyon down to the corral. My contributions were minor, although I did manage to head off a bunch of renegade cows just before they crossed a ridge and descended into another canyon system, which would have meant another whole day of riding to gather them in. Altogether, it took six of us three hours to corral about 20 cows and calves, a rather humbling ratio of man-hours to cattle.

Afterward, while we were eating lunch and drinking cold sodas, Jorge asked me if I had much riding experience.

"Not much," I said.

"Well, you kept your ass in the saddle," he said. "That's good -- that's where it's supposed to be."

I consider that a compliment. And a week later, I can just about sit without wincing.