Connections in the Caymans
The island I visited last week could not have been more different from my ranch.
My partner, Erik, and I found ourselves comparing and contrasting Grand Cayman to Montana.
The entire island is 200 square miles while Montana is 750 times bigger.
The sandy beach boasted warm ocean currents and orange-tinted sunlight instead of crusted snow-blown grass reflecting winter-blue hues.
Skin-shredding coral harbored underwater sanctuaries for scores of species of fish, starfish and stingrays and collected inviting pockets of soil and rainwater where ancient, rugged outcrops discourage even the most intrepid forager.
The closest relatives at the ranch are granite cobbles and sandstone hoodoos.
The only indigenous mammals on the island are bats and rabbit-like agoutis. Introduced feral cats and feral chickens abound. The few blue iguanas left in the world live on the island.
An obnoxious rooster cockadoodle-dooed each morning, but we were thrilled the day we spotted a shy agouti and a rare blue iguana roaming through the jungle.
The vines and underbrush of the jungle did not look at all like the sage and junipers of the Rocky Mountain foothills.
On the island, the moon rose more than an hour later each night while it rises only 15 minutes later each night in Conrad.
Yet some aspects of island life were similar.
Algae on underwater seagrass feed starfish and turtles just as leaves on bluebunch wheatgrass feed my livestock.
And people who raise cattle face the same issues wherever they live.
One day, Erik and I strolled along a path hacked out of the jungle until we came across a small herd of cattle grazing clumps of grass growing between jagged coral outcrops.
The young calves all were about the same age and in good shape. When we appeared, they trotted to their mamas.
The pond was murky, but someone hauled tubs of water so the cattle could drink clean water.
Barbed wire stretched between trees. Fenceposts lay nearby, ready to be planted.
These sawed red birch would root when they found soil, creating living fence posts.
Erik and I wished we had posts that would root themselves in the Montana ground.
The next day, on our trek to spot the elusive blue iguana, we drove down a dirt two-track, farther into the jungle.
Surprised to find a late-model GMC pickup with leather gloves and assorted tools in the back, we parked and followed a narrow path among huge coral outcrops.
Just when we discovered intentionally planted vegetation, we heard someone call out to us.
Materializing from the impenetrable jungle stood an older gentleman holding a machete, his wrinkled obsidian skin shining while his poker-faced eyes questioned our intrusion.
Rayal Forbes had been planting another crop of casava and yams on 5 acres that he had purchased 20 years ago, right about the time I purchased my ranch.
He owns the cattle we had seen about 5 miles away.
When we admitted we own cattle, the conversation immediately turned to breeds and breeding seasons, family heritage, marketing and passing the whole thing to the next generation.
Mr. Forbes raises Piedmontese and Charolais crossed with Brahma to deal with the heat.
He butchers his calves just before Christmas and sells his beef directly to islanders.
His great-great-grandfather raised cattle among the ruthless coral outcrops, using rawhide to make sandals to protect his feet.
He has two sons and six grandsons, but he was working alone that day.
His sons own a gas station and popular beach bar, with no interest in raising cattle or casava. He doesn’t know what will happen to his land when he dies.
He works it anyway.
As we chatted, distance and differences evaporated.
We understood one another.