Waking up the morning after the storm, we were surprised at how cool the air was for June–we even needed our fleece pullovers at breakfast. By lunch we were in tiny Quinton, where we stopped in at a place called Bray’s. This was apparently the source of food for all Quinton’s residents: livestock on the left (Bray’s Feed Store), humans on the right (Bray’s Cafe).

The cafe had a fishing and farming decor with a no-pampering attitude: outside a sign warned “$25 charge for whining”, while inside an urn next to the cash register contained the “ashes of a problem customer”. We failed to conform to the prevailing fashion of boots and Oklahoma “Round Barn” overalls, but they served us with a smile anyhow.

That night we climbed into the Sans Bois Mountains to Robber’s Cave, an Oklahoma state park I’d often heard of but could not recall having been to. Whoever would laugh at using “mountain” and “Oklahoma” in the same sentence has never been to southeast Oklahoma on a bicycle: it was a tough ascent at the end of a day.

Tucked into the densely forested mountains was the centerpiece of the park: sparkling little Carlton Lake fronted by the visitor’s center, both courtesy of the CCC. As were most CCC constructions, the building was crafted with native stone, huge timbers, and plenty of elbow grease. An expansive grass lawn flanked the building, while on the lake paddleboate, kayaks, and swimmers played. We headed straight for the lake and took a refreshing swim out to the diving platform. In our haste, we had forgotten to bring towels, so to dry we laid out on massive stone slabs painstakingly placed by the CCC to create a stairway into the lake.

After swimming, we mosied over to the campground and got set up for the night. A ranger soon came by to collect our fees, but after chatting for a few minutes about our bike and the journey we planned to make on it, he scratched out the receipt. “No charge for you two. Enjoy your trip.”

After sundown, we bedded down as a nearby set of campers gathered with a guitar around their campfire and sung softly together. But not all campground neighbor noises are so soothing–well after sundown, a new family arrived, screaming children in tow. They fought from the second they stepped out of their truck, and began setting up a tent they did not understnd in the dark not 10 feet from our tent. The fighting ascended as the tent failed to, and the wife did not hide her frustrations: “I am never going camping again.” Then as her child howled, “This is not the life I wanted.”

Well, this was not the evening we wanted either, as we became involuntary eavesdroppers onto a young family’s self-inflicted strife. What a shame that their camping experience was tainted by mistakes that could have been easily avoided by arriving before dark and feeding their children dinner before 10pm.

Politics and Petroleum

Our first sizable town to pass through this morning was Seminole. We passed the Oxford Inn, which humbly declared itself “A Nice Place”. Perhaps they were lying, or maybe travelers wanted something better than “nice”, because it was boarded up.

A street sign with a gushing oil derrick on it told us we were pedalling down Boren Boulevard. Apparently, Seminole is a net exporter of power, both political and petrochemical. In fact, this theme would color much of Southeast Oklahoma. Oil and gas exploration and production was still alive and well, and it seemed that every town we passed through could claim a notable politician as a native son. Shawnee was our current governor’s home town, while Seminole had produced David Boren, a former prominent Senator (and our alma mater’s current president). Soon we would pass through McAlester, which laid claim to both the honorable former Speaker of the House Carl Albert as well as the less-than-honorable Gene Stipe.

We stopped in Seminole at Richard’s Quick Stop (”the friendliest in town”) for a chocolate milk break. As we were dehelmeting, a grizzled man in a cowboy hat stepped out of his hulking truck and walked right up to us. After learning that we were going cross-country, he launched into a story about another cyclist he’d met.

“This guy come through here, started in Idaho. Says he’s going ‘cross the country, and one day this dog takes to following him. Not chasin’, just runnin’ along behind. Musta been feedin’ ‘em. Time he gets here, that dog’s paws was worn down and raw.

“Now I’ve shoed horses all my life, but I never done no dog. But I happened to have some pine tar with me, so I just took that dog’s paws and dunked ‘em in that tar. Sealed them up good, and they was on their way.”

The wind lived up to our state song, ” sweeping down the plain” right against us for the next few days. Combined with the increasingly hilly terrain, our fledgling legs were quickly being broken in. That night, the wind was unrelenting, disturbing even our resting hours with gusts that howled through the trees and buffeted our little tent.

The next morning, we passed another new and expansive house with a mailbox decorated with oil equipment. No question here about what pays the bills.

Coming into McAlester, we heard thunder under a cloudless sky–the nearby army munitions plant. Next, a cluster of signs informed us of another mainstay in the local economy: a federal penitentiary.

Down aptly named Grand Ave, we found ourselves surprised at the number of stately buildings in a town of only 18,000. Towering from a hilltop over the downtown was the Scottish Rites Temple, a hulking stone building with ornate columns and emblems. Reputedly, Will Roger took his Scottish Rites here. Across the street is a monument to the wealth that built McAlester–a two and a half ton block of coal.

Nearby Krebs also got its start as a mining town but is now most famous for its Italian heritage and eateries. Foremost among them is Pete’s Place, which produces not only old-Italy entrees, but old-Oklahoma brews. Choc (short for Choctaw, as the recipe originated from Native Americans) beer has been produced in Krebs for many decades, although its early years were rocky; prohibition continued in Oklahoma until 1959, and Pete Pritchard (namesake of Pete’s Place) served two full terms in federal prison for his brews. Even after the ban was lifted, the beer was sold illegally, since it did not bear the proper liquour stamps. Finally, in 1995, Choc went legal.

We arrived at Pete’s Place hours before opening, yet the servers were kind enough to set a table for us and pour Laura and I both complimentary samplers of all their brews. Choc is no longer made with the unusual ingredients from its past, such as fishberries or tobacco, but was still distinctive (I smelled and tasted buttered popcorn). Our favorite was the peach lager.

That evening, we continued our tour of Oklahoma lakes with a night on Lake Eufaula, where our unusual mode of transit elicited the attention and kindness of the RV’ers. A storm was brewing, and we had offers to come inside if it got bad, or to flee in their trucks if it got really bad. The winds did blow, and the rains fall, yet we stayed warm and dry inside our little blue tent.

On the second morning of the trip, we pedaled a little while on the Mother Road. The landscape now had a few more rolling hills, and soon we were at one of Route 66’s most well-known landmarks: the Round Barn of Arcadia. Apparently most tourists don’t get around as early as bicycle travelers, so we just circled (literally) the red two-story structure and read the quirky signs stapled to various posts and trees.

We continued east on 66 and passed out of the “unassigned lands” which were opened in that most Wild West of ways: a land run. During the years prior to statehood, Oklahoma territory made a habit of “civilizing” our state in a most uncivilized manner. Five major land runs were used to allocate lands to homesteaders (”Boomers” in Okie parlance), most of which took back land previously given to tribes who had been driven from their homes in the east. Not easy on the conscience, but at least it makes history simple: most cities in the “unassigned lands” bear a birthday of April 22, 1889. In Northwest Oklahoma, the trendy birthdate is 1893 from the Cherokee Strip run.

We parted ways with old route 66 in Luther, and made our way to Shawnee on country roads. Here we ran into Willie Maddux, a security guard on the Oklahoma Baptist University campus. He noticed our unusual bike and chased us down to chat. At the end of our conversation, he asked if there was any way he could help us.

“Well, we were hoping to stay here in Shawnee tonight–would you mind if we camped in your yard?”

“I can do you one better,” Willie replied. “I’ve got an old rent house that I’m fixin’ up. Y’all could stay there tonight.”

He gave us his number and told us to call him after we’d finished our errands in town. When we called him later, he unashamedly admitted that his wife had chided him for not inviting us to dinner, and made arrangements to pick us up. Willie could’ve easily played the hero and asked us to dinner without mentioning that, but his humble honesty was endearing. That night, we met his wife Sharon, daughter Lacey, son-in-law Justin, and grandson Noah at Pizza Hut, where we all shared a meal and a lively conversation.

Willie had been born and raised in Shawnee and seemed perfectly ready to live out the rest of his life there. Sharon, on the other hand, had come to Oklahoma with great skepticism after fleeing an earthquake in California.

“She came here expecting to find a bunch of hicks, but ended up marrying one,” Willie laughed.

Lacey and Justin were in their mid-twenties and fellow newlyweds. Lacey was a homebody like her father, while Justin had a case of wanderlust. “You’re gonna ruin our marriage, putting all these ideas in his head,” Lacey joked.

That night we went to be filled with pizza and a gratefulness for the kindness of strangers.