On a non-photography related note: My Buc-ees Gas Station Vacation

(This is one is long, kids. Grab a sandwich or something first.)

I traveled 740 miles to see a beaver named Buc-ee who lives at a travel center in Texas.

I had heard about Buc-ee’s from many many people, how it was a glorious place filled with glorious things and you never have to worry they are closed because they stay open 24/7, 365 days a week for the weary traveler and they have incredible brisket and the bathrooms are the cleanest in AMERICA and the people are incredibly kind and friendly and how I must go there. 

So, I did. 740 miles away was the closest location.

I traveled through rain and terrible wind. I watched tumbleweeds blow across the highway. I watched as Apple maps kept adding time to my trip. I argued with Frank who kept talking about how he didn’t trust Siri and how he wasn’t convinced going through Abilene wasn’t quicker. 

“OMG. AGAIN with the Abilene thing?”

And yet, I persevered to get to that beaver. 

I forgot a toothbrush and a belt. Sciatica screamed at me from my leg. We ate a very late night awful meal at a sports bar called “Twin Peaks.” I foolishly thought the name was in reference to sister mountains, like the Sangre de Christos in Santa Fe or the beautiful twin peaks of Flagstaff, AZ. 

Turns out, the name is in reference to boobs. 

Yes, at 11:30pm in Lubbock, TX I ate an awful meal in what I now know is the Texas version of Hooters: “We’re out of Patron silver; we’re out of bread; we’re out of clean spoons, but we CAN give you salad swimming in dressing and enough salt that your tongue will go numb.” 

I wanted to give all the darling little servers a bathrobe. (Upon telling this to my darling son, he said, “Mom. Don’t. I do not want to read about you on Reddit.)

And yet, I persevered to get to that beaver. 

The dog, who accompanies us on all road trips, hadn’t pooped in two days. I suspect it was road trip excitement but still, we walked her everywhere in an attempt to move her Yorkie bowels but she was closed up tighter than a workshop photographer giving a refund. 

And yet, I persevered to get to that beaver. 
I felt like Clark Griswold: “I must be crazy. I’m on a pilgrimage to see a beaver!”

But then, like a message from heaven, I saw the billboard.
“Buc-ees Next Exit.” 
We did it. WE DID IT. 

Frank immediately begins to drool over all those gas pumps. 120 of them, people, all standing in brightly lit rows like happy little energy providers. He declares he needs to gas up. Seeing the wild look of impatience in my eyes, he quickly follows with, “But you go on inside. I’ll gas up, walk the dog again and meet you inside.” 

I ran through the parking lot. 
I held my breath as the sliding doors opened. 
And there I was. 
INSIDE Buc-ee’s.

I flew from the beaver nuggets to the ultra clean bathrooms to the jerky. And then I realized, I NEED A CART. 

Brisket sandwich? Check. 
Banana pudding? Check. 
Large bag of beaver nuggets? Check. 
Cinnamon beaver nuggets? Check. 
Buc-ees cup? Check.
Buc-ees insulated travel bag? Check.
Buc-ees beaver zipper pull? Check.
Buc-ees tshirt? Check. 
Mini apple pies? Check. 
A bag of Buc-ees ground coffee? Check. 
Cinnamon nuts? Check. 
Popcorn? Check.

By the time Frank arrived, the cart was full. 
I apologize for nothing.