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Raised in a patch of rural Alberta that she described as “wheat, oil and cow country,” Ms. Seymour studied dance in Vancouver before coming under the wing of Ashton, a classical choreographer and director known for his work with the Royal Ballet.

In the early 1980s, H. Gary Morse, a onetime ad man, took over his father’s mobile home park in an unlovely patch of Florida cow country.

In the dark, with a heavy, sloshing bucket in each hand, he trudged across the flotsam of cow country — barbed wire, crumpled fences, rodent burrows — and under the white smear of the Milky Way.

Thirty years ago Hog Island was legitimate cow country.

“I don’t want to go to cow country,” Grimsley said.