THE NORTH COUNTRY. Sagebrush country. Cow country. Up here, well north of Highway 50—the so-called Loneliest Road in America—cows outnumber humans two to one. At the Cottonwood Guest Ranch, a working cattle outfit and lodge in no-man's-land about 68 miles north of Wells, the stats are more like 200 to 1. It's a good place to be, because how could I hope to get under Nevada's skin without a stint on a ranch?

This morning a cowboy named Mike Murray and I are tracing the icy sparkle of a creek on horseback, on the trail of a big, ornery bull that's gotten himself stuck in some willows and cottonwood saplings. At the base of the rugged Jarbidge Mountains, the Cottonwood Ranch lies in spacious O'Neil Basin, once home to the quick-shooting cattle-rustling O'Neil family. The current owners, the Smiths, play fair, raising 900 head of cattle a year without shooting anybody. At an elevation of 6,200 feet, the ranch is blessed with air that's crisp and cold. The whole mood up north is different, less desperate than in the south, but here, too, they're always praying for rain.

Mike is a lean, solemn cowboy, and, like most real cowboys, he mends fences, brands calves, and drives cattle across pastures of scruffy vegetation. Right now he's barking orders in every direction, but I gather that all he really wants me to do is sit on my horse and block the only escape route the bull has. The serious work is being done by a sprightly black-and-white Border collie named Jessie. He forges through the reeds and nips at the bull's heels.

After a few minutes, Mike arrives back at my side, looking flummoxed because the dog has chased the bull deeper into the weeds.

"Ah, the hell with him," he says, lifting his hat and wiping his brow with the cuff of his sweatshirt. "It's pretty nice out here, isn't it?" he says, without looking around. "Let's come back tomorrow after supper."