By chance, a brochure arrives in the mail, showing a cowboy rustling cows. "Rancho de la Oso is inhabited by the Great Spirit, She Bear - a mountain spirit who looks out over the people in the valley" - it sounded mystical.

My decision is quick - fly to Tucson, Ariz., then rent a car and drive to the ranch.

Turning into the driveway, it looks barren, until a feisty jack rabbit with giant ears pops up like a jack in the box. That night, I crawl under a thick blanket, the sounds of a crackling fire and the creaking of a eucalyptus tree easing me to sleep.

The next morning, waking to sunshine streaming through an uncurtained window, I quickly dress and head straight to the pasture. As I leaning against a fence post, a free-range horse, Chewy, shuffles up and sniffs my shoulder. Smelling his grassy breath, I scratch his fuzzy neck. He lowers his head, sniffs the ground, and rolls onto his back for a sand bath.

My mount for the day is Dent, a medium-sized bay gelding looking fit in a carved Western saddle. We negotiate a mosaic of white bones, thistle, and cacti of all shapes.

Day Two is a full day of riding. Coming upon a hill of sand, we are instructed to lean back in the saddle and allow a free rein. We slide down the hill with great effort on both parts.

With the sun at its peak, we break for lunch. Sitting next to our leader, I ask, "When are we going rustling?" Evidently, it's not intended for beginners. Later that day, I approach him again. "I love the rides, but I have a dream of rustling." He has noticed my abilities and says, "OK, miss, you want to rustle some cows. . . . You come with me tomorrow."

The next morning, the cowboy and I go a mile or two, until we come to a pasture with several cows. He points to a full-grown cow and a calf.

"What we need to do is move them into this pasture over there," he says, pointing to a spot fenced in with barbed wire. "I'm going to move the mother out. Now you watch."

Gathering his reins with a swish, he takes off at a lope and comes up behind the mother, swinging his rope expertly. The cow moves off at a good clip. After chasing her through a small opening in the fence, he returns to me. "Your turn. Get behind the calf and move him out."

"OK." Dream time becomes action time. Pulling my cowgirl hat down, I trot Dent toward the calf. Closing in, I yell, "Shooo, shoo." The calf looks up at me but doesn't move. I circle closer, riding directly at the calf. He still does not move.

The cowboy waves me off. "No, no," he says, shaking his head. "You have to gallop your horse, get as close as you can, and yell 'Yaaahhh.' "

I got it. I don't need Rustling for Dummies.

Dust flies behind us as I ask Dent for speed. Sliding up behind the calf, I yell as loud as I can, "Yaahh, yaahh." The little calf scrambles to his feet and runs.

Sitting deep in the saddle, I return to the cowboy's side. He nods and says, "What a ride."

The next day, as my plane lifts off, returning me to my day-to-day life, I close my eyes and remember the smell of dusty land, the quiet of the desert, and my exhilaration at finally rustling.