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We proceeded through a stand of trees that formed a windbreak down the other side of the hill, along another fence to a gate. On the other side of this gate was a field full of cattle. Amos got out and opened the gate.

The grass in the pasture was taller than the hood and lay down flat as we drove over it. The air was heavy and sultry, redolent of pollen and crushed grass. Cattle began to lope alongside us, as if we were part of the herd, masquerading as a large cow in this small vehicle. “This way?” I asked. I tried not to sound nervous. The cattle were getting a little too close for comfort.

“Pretty much,” Amos answered. But he could barely see over the dashboard; he was craning his head to look.

“Are you sure,” I asked a bit more pointedly, “this is all right? Are there any rocks or holes in this—” It was not necessary for Amos to reply as a horrible grinding resounded from somewhere under the car. I would have stopped, but the cattle were pressing in too close. Nothing to do but move onward. The grinding passed, but the cattle continued to press.

“Uh,” I asked, “is there a bull in that herd?”

“Yes, he’s that big one running in the middle.”

“But is it safe to be driving a car in a field with a bull?”

“Well, he’s pretty tame for a bull. We’ve already worked with him a little. He won’t do anythin’ to you s’long’s you don’t bother’m. See, that kind’s red’n’white, and they’re the tamest. That’s why we got ’im. We’ve had ’im a couple of weeks now.” Amos had an almost British lilt to his voice that, from what I could tell, might have undulated just as pleasantly were a wall of lava descending on us. How could I tell he wasn’t saying anything he could think of just to prolong the ride? Red bull. Red car…

I said a few Hail Marys under my breath, and we made it safely across the field to a second gate.

As the herd gathered around us, I peered beyond the opening. On the other side, a gravel road descended precipitously through thick woods. The steep, rutted lane was clearly impassable in a car. The folly of our expedition was now too clear.

I could only intone, “I really don’t think we can do that.”

Back the way we came, bypassing the place where I had heard the grinding sound. At least the bull left us alone. A mere half-hour had been wasted. No sweat.

But the thought of the natural water source had piqued my curiosity. The next day, abandoning the preventative hoeing I had planned, I set out again on my own to find it. This time I went by bike. The little black city bicycle would conserve a few minutes that could be used later in the garden. It had fifteen speeds and an orange flag for safety attached to a long fiberglass stick mounted to the rear axle. The bright fluorescent flag swung back and forth, brushing against the tree limbs as I crossed the gate into the first enclosure. The herd grazed in the center of the pasture, with its lord rising majestically in the midst. I felt fortunate he was so far away, doubting I would be noticed from this distance.

I literally was burrowing through the grass. I had to lift my head to avoid facial lacerations from the tall blades. Still, I enjoyed the feeling I was under camouflage, thinking my head was low enough to escape notice. Then I heard a rumbling sound. Turning my head to the left, I was startled to see cattle at my flank. They seemed to be moving rapidly and gaining on me. “Odd,” I thought. “Why would they—?”

The herd was fast closing the gap, almost alongside me now, maybe a few yards away. Here came the bull, bounding and tossing his head—

My heart jumped out of my chest.

What happened next was a blur. A furious rush of pedals…hurling myself and my bicycle over the wire…gasping, doubling over…

I was over the fence now, but almost immediately more cattle began approaching through the trees! What? Had the herd gotten through the fence? No, I saw that it hadn’t. This was another herd.

Cattle were nearly on top of me now, and perhaps unthinkingly,