My first taste of real cowboy work comes on my third day at the ranch when the wranglers ask guests to help move cattle from various pastures. In the field, about 10 of us form a moving column, slowly tightening our circle around a herd of brown-and-white heifers. Without prodding, our horses close in on the cattle. A few heifers briefly rebel, refusing to yield until they come nose to nose with our advancing column.

Next our crew circles a group of Angus steers we must move to another field. These fierce-looking beasts -- the pit bulls of bovines -- are tall and thick in the shoulder, but they offer little resistance as our horses approach.

Three hours of cowpunching and I ride back to the barn, thinking I may have what it takes to be a real cowboy. But reality sinks in when I get off my horse and waddle to my cabin to relieve my sore muscles with some ibuprofen and a chilled bottle of pale ale.

Toward the end of the week, I tackle another cowboy tradition: ambling. The wranglers move our horses by trailer to a lakeside campground about five miles east of the ranch, on the outskirts of the Hoover Wilderness. About 20 of us would-be cowboys follow in cars. We pack sandwiches and water bottles in our saddlebags and ride into the Sierra wilderness.

A dirt and rock trail leads us to Barney Lake, a deep blue mountain pool that was first stocked with cutthroat trout by Napoleon's son Frank Hunewill in the late 1800s.

The four-mile, single-track path follows the banks of a shallow, fast-moving creek. We are shaded by ponderosa and Jeffrey pine, white cedar and quaking aspen. The mountain breezes make the aspen leaves quiver like butterfly wings. Yellow mule's ear blooms and purple lupine adorn our path.

We stop to stretch our legs and listen to another cowboy poem -- something about life being a lot like a doughnut.

As we ride, the sound of hoofs and the splashing creek fill the warm mountain air. When the lake comes into view between the pines, even our thick-skinned wranglers can't help but be stunned. "What a sight," says one. "Beautiful."


It's the morning of my final day at the ranch and I've joined a group of riders for a few hours of loping and ditch jumping in the pastures. I've spent nearly a week in a saddle, and I've abandoned the title of "buckaroo." Maybe I'm not a cowboy yet, but I'm certainly no tenderfoot.

As Murphy and I sprint across the fields, leaping over narrow waterways, I can almost hear the "William Tell" Overture.

Back at the ranch house that afternoon, the wranglers call for volunteers to move more cattle out of a pasture in the western end of the ranch. Not today, I say. All of this riding has taken its toll. I have an hourlong deep-tissue massage scheduled with the ranch's in-house masseurs.

Sorry, Grandpa.