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.