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The first overnight stop we made after departing North Dakota was after an eight hour drive through fracking country, when we found a local park in Rosebud, Montana, on the Yellowstone River.
The county campground was gated. A large and unfriendly sign marked the entrance that warned of theft, vandalism, and prosecution of squatters.
It was unmonitored by a host, and the park was deserted.
“Guess they scared everyone off,” I told Mike. “We’ve got it all to ourselves.”
“But do we want it,” Mike said, gripping the wheel.
“Too late in the day to find anywhere else,” I said.
Giant cottonwood trees loomed over the campsites, some of the largest I’d ever seen, and these giants had been hit recently by the same storm we’d weathered in North Dakota.
Two of the mammoth, brittle trees had dropped enormous limbs onto campsites beside the one we were assigned, annihilating the spots entirely. Someone had begun chainsawing the debris, but the sheer size and flattening power of the fallen branches gave me a shiver.
Once we’d navigated through the locked gate, paid our fee and parked the trailer, I wasn’t sure whether I felt more trapped, or secure, inside the fenced enclosure.
After setting up carefully out from under the hazardous trees, Mike, Koa and I walked over to the nearby Yellowstone River.
This wide swath of calm water with a low dam across it bore little resemblance to the churning, dramatic waterfalls I remembered in Yellowstone National Park, though this was the same river.
A few locals peppered its banks, fishing, which perked Mike up. He was soon occupied pulling in catfish, smallmouth bass, and fiesty, shimmering shad. “Best fishing of the trip!” He exclaimed, fighting yet another fish with his light tackle rod.
Koa and I continued to explore and returned inside the fenced camping enclosure to walk around the wooded area. I tried not to cringe as I passed the enormous fallen cottonwoods obliterating empty campsites. No storms were forecast tonight, and we’d moved the trailer so that we weren’t under any of the huge trees.
A cacophony of twittering and singing caught my attention as we wandered deeper into the trees and bushes. I was taken aback by the sheer number and variety of wild birds. I recognized a few: robins, doves and red headed woodpeckers; but there were many more in this forest than I had been able to see elsewhere, even in the National Parks. Were we camped in the middle of a migration zone?
When I sat quietly on a stump to observe with Koa on my lap, the residents of the campground appeared all around us. They hopped and sang in the trees and bushes as if we were a part of the landscape.
I didn’t know what many of the avians were, so I downloaded an app my birder friend Holly had recommended. Enough signal came through my phone to identify by song the western meadowlark, goldfinch, and a particularly melodious fellow, the gray catbird.
Who knew this tiny county park outside the village of Redbud, Montana, would be such a haven for fishing—and birding?
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