Beaver Fever

February 2–5, 2026

We left Houston headed for Corsicana, TX to visit George’s cousin, Cheryl. If you look at a map you will see that we've been zig-zagging across Texas like a Roomba. All to dodge the Big Freeze.

Somewhere on the highway we started seeing billboards for Buc-ee's. Not just a billboard. Like fifty-seven billboards. Every five miles. Each one sassier than the last.

“Risk it for the Brisket.”
“It’s giving potty.”
“My precious.”

By mile 75 we had to stop and see what Buc-ee's was all about.

Now, this was allegedly a small Buc-ee’s. Only 32 pumps and an equal or greater number of bathroom stalls. Basically a gas station for peasants, because the big ones have 64 pumps. Inside, they were making fresh fudge, tortillas, brisket sandwiches, and more. Buc-ee's also has its own line of jerky, salsa, chips, candy, sodas, basically anything edible you can imagine. 

But the best part? The place was cleaner than my own home. I watched an employee swap out soda machine spouts like they were sterilizing equipment for the CDC. Every bathroom stall had sanitizing foam so you could wipe down your throne like royalty preparing to sit. I nearly wept. Germaphobes, Buc-ee's is our Disneyland. 

After writing this, I fully expect my social life to tank because now everyone knows I’m a raging germaphobe and they’ll be panic-scrubbing their baseboards before I come over. 

The Buc-ees's employees were cheerful, polite, clean-cut teenagers who made me think of the kids at Chick-fil-A or In-N-Out Burger. The beef jerky guy kept shoving samples into our hands before we even asked. Which is perfect, because asking for samples makes me feel like a beggar on a street corner. We bought four kinds of jerky (I guess the samples paid off), a hot cinnamon roll, two breakfast sandwiches, AND a fudge sampler. Buc-ee’s even has grocery carts because they know you’re about to buy things in bulk.

Back home, Maverik is the fancy gas station. Buc-ee’s ate Maverik’s lunch and sold it back to us in souvenir tins.

Across the street was a dead Exxon. May it rest in peace. That beaver don’t play.

After our long, unexpected delay at Buc-ee's, we finally made it to George's cousin's house. Cheryl hosted a full-family hangout with kids, grandkids, partners, and tiny humans running everywhere like sugared ferrets. The theme was a fast-food potluck, which I had never heard of but fully support. Someone brought fries from McDonald's. Someone brought corn nuggets, a first for me. I approve. Someone brought tamales. Someone brought Chinese food. Someone brought cookies. And someone brought a sandwich tray. It was chaos and cholesterol and we loved it.

We slept parked on Cheryl’s street like classy RV people. We forgot to take a picture with Cheryl, so we did the next best thing and took a wierd solo picture of George in front of her house. 

Next day: back to Houston for trailer repairs. Three-hour drive. All-day wait. But hey—we stopped at Buc-ee’s again. We're officially addicts. 

When the trailer was supposedly fixed, we drove to Galveston, TX and camped near the beach. Guess what? We still had no hot water or pressure. But I was greasy and desperate so I took a cold shower. It felt like bathing in punishment for crimes I don’t remember committing. Meanwhile, George was fighting off a hoard of mosquites that had managed to invade our camper. 

The next day I worked nonstop while George tinkered and researched our water issue like a man possessed. We didn’t even see the beach. After sunset, George refused to go outside because of mosquitoes. I was basically a prisoner from from sundown to sunup. 

It took us an embarrassingly long time to figure out why everything was lit up like a disco in purple, green, and gold. Mardi Gras, baby. We had accidentally scheduled our road trip to Galvaston, Texas, smack dab in the middle of Mardi Gras with zero clue. 

We survived the freeze, found the cleanest gas station on earth, and were only mildly traumatized by a cold shower and a mosquito invasion. Honestly? Worth it!