Buc-ee's

Revisiting Texas nostalgia.

Maxwell and I drove from Dallas to Houston last weekend, and as we sped through highways flanked by brown grass and fast food restaurants, sometimes I’d see a billboard with a cartoon beaver on it, its buckteeth exposed in a beaming grin. “SLAY,” one billboard said in bold, blocky letters. “Buc-ee’s 107 miles away.” Another one announced, “IN MY BUC-EE’S ERA.”

“What in the Gen Z?” I blurted aloud, laughing. Five years ago, when I lived in Texas, the Buc-ee’s billboards did not lean into slang. They said things like “WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER” and “BEST BATHROOMS IN THE STATE.”

Buc-ee’s has a reputation that precedes it, which is remarkable for a gas station market. Leave it to a beaver to get people into the door. I first learned about Buc-ee’s as a college freshman in Houston. Some students would drive over an hour to hang out there at midnight—just for fun.

“Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” I asked a friend who’d grown up in Texas his whole life.

“You’ll just need to experience it yourself,” he said. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

That summer after finals ended, some friends and I headed toward Enchanted Rock in Austin for a weekend camping trip. Halfway through the three-hour drive, my friends announced that a Buc-ee’s was straight ahead and that I should prepare for my true inauguration into Texas culture. Once the gas station came into view, my jaw dropped—literally.

“Buc-ee’s is…a beaver?” I asked. Texans obsessed over a cartoon rodent?

Inside the market, my eyes were momentarily blinded by a riot of red, brown, and yellow colors, the hues of the Buc-ee’s logo. A display of stuffie beavers wearing Buc-ee’s T-shirts and red caps immediately caught my attention. The crown jewel was a towering stuffed beaver as tall as my five-foot, three-inch frame, and the smaller beavers that congregated around it looked like its underlings. More merch options abounded: T-shirts, coolers, mugs, stickers, lunch boxes, and kitchen towels. Texas-themed cutting boards occupied a shelf, as did embroidered pillows spelling out “Blessed” and “Yeehaw.”

The space itself spanned at least three regular gas station marts. One corner was dedicated to classic road trip snacks such as beef jerky, kettle chips, special Beaver Nuggets (corn puffs covered in caramel), gummy worms, Snickers bars. Another corner featured hot foods like brisket sandwiches and andouille sausage, a deli, and a fudge station with at least twenty different flavors. Fridges lined the walls, stocked with energy drinks and Arizona iced teas. I spied people carrying bucket-sized tumblers and 32-oz fountain sodas. What seemed like a million visitors crammed into the store, making navigation a stressful and exhilarating exercise.

Forget the massive stuffed beaver—the real gem, I realized, was the bathroom. One stall could fit three people, and it was optimized for privacy with a door that ran the full length of the cubicle. The line of women waiting their turn trailed towards the checkout stations.

I couldn’t help but be impressed. With a bag of Beaver Nuggets clutched in my hand, I clambered back into the truck with a greater sense of awe for the culture I would adapt to for the next three or more years. God, barbecue, family time, trucks, and long drives—that’s what Buc-ee’s revealed to me about Texas living. This gas station seemed like a shrine to that, apparent by the sheer volume of people that visited it every day and the way the cartoon mascot beckoned them inside with its buck-toothed, cheerful grin. It was all just fascinating and larger-than-life, like sensory overload at a carnival.

When Maxwell and I dated long-distance, I frequented Buc-ee’s even more. One in Bastrop about forty-five minutes away from Austin where I lived, and another one outside of Katy. I’d floor it to the gas station to refuel my thirsty Toyota Camry, then pop inside the market to use the bathroom and maybe snag some brownie brittle for the road. It was more than just a rest stop. Seeing the beaver’s smiling face gave me a bit more energy to keep driving and revived my eagerness to see Maxwell soon. Each time, I’d be reminded of that awestruck feeling that’d captivated me during my first encounter. I had been hungry to learn more about Texas and the unique way that people lived, so unlike the Pacific Northwest with its odes to rain, Birkenstocks, and vegan diets.

I hadn’t been in a Buc-ee’s in five years until last weekend. At the Madisonville location, we rumbled up to the beaver’s parking lot and noted the flurry of cars (so many trucks) all trying to find parking spots of their own. Overall, Buc-ee’s had largely remained the same, minus the billboard words and the new inclusions of kombucha and higher-end protein shakes in its beverage section. Beaver fever still ran high. As I perused the aisles and grabbed popcorn, beef jerky, and chocolate-covered almonds, a wave of nostalgia rushed through me. Memories followed, my heart softening as I sifted through them in my mind.

Being in Texas, exploring Buc-ee’s and breakfast tacos, eating the best corn dog at the State Fair, and meeting my closest friends—that’s how I spent most of my early adulthood, where I learned to grow into myself and detach from the comforts of home. I finally received diagnoses for my chronic illnesses at Houston’s Medical Center. My writing dreams began in Texas. I met my husband here, got married here during the peak of COVID-19. My faith in God had gained solid ground. As much as Portland was my first love, Texas left its mark on my heart, too. I had forgotten how much it had shaped me into who I am today.

Back in the car, I asked Maxwell if he feels wistful whenever he visits his Houston hometown.

“When I’m driving 59,” he mused. “Seeing the downtown Houston skyline, the Whataburgers. Eating my mom’s food and seeing my family. What about you?”

“Buc-ee’s,” I said.