Beaver believers flocked to Buc-ee’s. What’s up with the gas station cult?

In 1861, Texas invaded Arizona. The Confederate marauders came on the hot winds of the first summer of the Civil War, intent on capturing the western territories in a smash-and-grab campaign, but were stopped by severe supply shortages and the advancing “California Column” of Col. James Henry Carleton’s 2,000-plus Union brigade. 

165 years later, the Texans have returned. On June 22, just off of Bullard Avenue in Goodyear, hundreds of eager beaver fans braved a sleepless night to be the first to enter the newest and most western-reaching outpost of Buc-ee’s. 

The chain — started in 1982 by Arch “Beaver” Alpin III and his business partner Don Wasek in Clute, Texas — has grown into a massive enterprise, fueled, literally, by hundreds of gas pumps, exclusive on-site merchandise, elevated gas station cuisine and a reputation for resplendent restrooms at each location. 

For those seeking the limits of American excess, the grinning buck-toothed rodent sign, visible from Interstate 10, offers a beacon of endless opportunities to make commuting better again.

While the temptation of sugary Beaver Nuggets and all-you-can-stomach jerky varietals is certainly drawing a massive response – early warnings from the city of Goodyear warned that there could be upwards of 40,000 vehicles attempting to visit – it raises the question to those on the fringe of the Buc-ee moment: Does it live up to the hype?

In short, absolutely fucking not. 

Beaver believers

Everyone needs a sense of community, and this 74,000-square-foot megaplex acts, in many respects, like a temple for the waning days of American consumerism. Buc-ee’s fans come from all over, with several crossing state lines to be in attendance for this particular opening, and the general vibe of their gathering en masse is very similar to another red-hatted meeting of the minds. 

“I’ve been to all 55 Buc-ee’s,” brags retired civil engineer Jim Taschner, wearing multiple layers of Buc-ee’s clothing as he stands and stretches from his spot in the line. Patrons could begin lining up at midnight, but some parked and walked over as early as 4 p.m. the previous evening.

“I’ve been retired for seven months, and I plan my trips around them,” he explains. Next month, he’ll hit his 56th Buc-ee’s at the grand opening in Santa Rosa, Texas. 

Those who chose to wait in line and brave a night under the neon signs are mostly amiable and good-natured, sharing snacks and stories about previous openings or pit stops. 

Oscar Diaz drove his family from Long Beach in their van outfitted with a “Buc-ee’s or Bust!” slogan. He had been to a few Buc-ee’s before, and he sought to make a road trip out of this one, hitting the Grand Canyon on the way out.

As his family got settled in line mere feet from the locked double doors, he started talking to his neighbors. Soon, he formed a cohort with another Buc-ee’s fan, Larry Bartels, a Phoenix native with a long history of working in the film industry. Suddenly, the two are bonding over photography, and Bartels is sharing snaps he took decades ago on the sets of “Bill and Ted” and “Near Dark.” 

A few hours in, the two are sharing a circle of folding chairs and complimenting each other’s work, while Diaz casts aspersions at the recent failed mayoral bid for Los Angeles, lamenting the loss of conservative reality TV star Spencer Pratt. The beaver, it seemed, was bringing people together. 

Some potential beaver believers had come along for the ride with friends, never having set foot in the store, but who were obviously attempted converts. In general, there was a buzzing of excitement and shamelessness, something that you might pick up on if you were in line for a Black Friday doorbuster sale or a pre-sale for concert tickets. It’s ridiculous, yes, but, hey, we’re in this together and everyone has to have a hobby, right? 

Around 4 a.m., a pickup truck full of teenagers speeds through the newly poured concrete lot, peeling off rubber and making a scene. The Goodyear police are called, and fingers are pointed. The crowd looks on and offers armchair legal advice, mostly critical, as a security guard encourages any witnesses to come make a statement, but to “keep it respectful.” 

Eventually, the alleged teenage road warrior is trespassed and issued a citation, kicked out of the promised land just as he is approaching the entry. Amongst the faithful, there is a sense that justice has been served. 

Beaver worshippers obviously need a symbol to bring some unification, which they find in abundance in the smiling, ever-present Buc-ee, shining down on them in various forms. 

One woman, a face-painter and balloon artist who goes by Madame Eileen’s Balloon Creations, marks a young fan with the visage of Buc-ee, the brush strokes on his forearm matching the cartoon beaver on her cheek. She gives him instructions on making the temporary tattoo last: hairspray. Conveniently, Buc-ee’s sells such items. 

Further up the line, a true believer has marked himself permanently. Phoenix local Jarvis Johnson shows off a fresh Buc-ee’s tattoo, which he got a few hours prior. The ink is still shimmering with a fresh layer of Vaseline, Buc-ee’s smiling face glistening in the neon light.

“Some people like to put their money where their mouth is, but I like to put it where my arm is,” Johnson explains, revealing several other brand-brandings, including Best Buy and Fry’s Electronics, all trophies of his time waiting in line for well-publicized openings. On his YouTube channel, “Mr. Black Friday,” he has made a name for himself with elaborate camping and multi-day set-ups for franchise openings in Phoenix. 

For many, the Buc-ee’s opening is a pilgrimage: Some have crossed the sands and time to be in attendance. Then, there is the homily, given by the Grand Pitmaster Randy Pauly, who, with mere minutes to go before the grand opening, gets the faithful crowd to chant, “Buc-ee’s! Buc-ee’s!” He tosses out a few free hats and performs the miracle: rolling the doors aside minutes early. 

If there was a sense of community that happened on this rare occasion, of strangers breaking bread and sharing the small hours of the morning together over stories of past brisket conquests, that hour has passed, and the communal magic is gone. 

The long-suffering in line are being invaded by line-cutters, and accusations and middle fingers fly as tensions mount to get the best spot. These people, by the nature of their being first, are not considering being last. It is every person for themselves as the doors are flung wide. 

Brisket of the bored

It’s a little before 6 a.m. when the double doors open. The crowd storms into the vast fluorescent shopping space. Sheriff’s deputies, security guards and red-shirt-wearing staff greet the throngs that file past, with staff doing their best to greet their guests with a smile. 

One of the aims of Buc-ee’s ample food offerings, according to co-founder Culpin, is to be intentionally overwhelming. That is certainly the case on a normal day, but add an extra thousand or so shoppers to the morning rush, and things get intense. 

Despite the chaos, the blue blazer-wearing corporate managers stand staunchly in the crowd, surveying the scene and directing their forces as needed to plug the gaps. Beaver plushies need fortifying along their right flank, a rack of Buc-ee’s bikinis needed re-hanging on the back wall. All hands, bathroom custodians at the ready. 

And say what you will about Buc-ee’s, but the customer service is top-notch, as is the base pay for entry-level positions. A veritable army of staff mill about in coordinated movements, refilling refrigerated shelves with banana pudding and parfaits, while another squadron presses flour tortillas without stopping: ready, aim, flour, before handing them off to the brisket station, where they will be used for breakfast tacos.

One employee has the Sisyphian task of refilling the front endcaps of Beaver Nuggets, a caramel-flavored air-puffed cornmeal confection that, when bitten into, punishes the molars with a gas-to-solid chemical breakdown that hints strongly at regret, with a slight Corn Pop cereal finish. They are incredibly popular, but confounding. It seems impossible to imagine someone eating a handful, much less a whole bag, but the poor woman cannot seem to keep up with the demand. 

Along the back wall, a trifecta of stations seems to lead logically into one another. The iced coffees, teas and soft drinks give Buc-ee-goers a much-needed jolt of caffeine, adjacent to the Wall of Jerky, where dried meat connoisseurs can spend hours deliberating over 26 types.

After the coffee-jerky combo, it’s probably a good idea to at least step foot into the legendary bathrooms. It is telling that a company can make millions off the seemingly humane and necessary concept of having access to clean, functional toilets on the open road in America, but such is the state of things that this is considered a luxury experience. 

And yes, they are clean, and high-tech, with lights shining under the door that let you know when a stall is occupied. Red supposedly saves an awkward knock, and green gives you the go-ahead that all systems are ready to roll. In reality, the lights also serve as data collection through their patented “Tooshlight” system, mapping out customer bathroom habits for the beaver to analyze and optimize for future experiences. 

While the bathrooms may be the second-most bragged about feature of any Buc-ee’s conversion speech to the uninitiated, the crown jewel seems to rest in the literal heart of the store: the splash zone, officially known as the Texas Round Up. 

Here at the center of the shopping plaza lies a circular cutting station where resident “pitmasters” (more like glorified meat cutters, as none of the brisket or pork is smoked in-house, but rather at a central processing station in Texas and shipped out daily), hoist onyx slabs of barked, smoked beef in front of hungry crowds. 

The beef-holder, blade at the ready, yells, “FRESH BRISKET ON THE BOARD!” and the crowd serves as call-and-response, echoing back the chant before the 12 to 14 pound sacrificial slab is rendered into flat and point, then chopped finely with double-handled chopping blades and doused in copious amounts of barbecue sauce. 

From there, the brisket is parcelled into various vessels for consumption: breakfast tacos and burritos, and later in the day, sandwiches. 

Pitmaster Randy Pauly, who holds an impressive pedigree as a former firefighter turned barbecue Grand Champion and Food Network star, is the mastermind and ringleader of this meat circus. Truth be told, his enthusiasm is infectious and he seems genuinely excited by both the crowd and his gig, providing a Texas barbecue experience to the masses. He is quick to differentiate between what Buc-ee’s is going for and what you might see at a local level. 

“The regional aspect, it is the best part about barbecue, right?” Pauly asks. 

“You’ve got to realize, barbecue is bloodlines, barbecue is generations, barbecue is what you can get your hands on. So these local spots can get woods we can’t get. They can get flavors that we can’t get, and that’s different from ours. That’s why we say ‘Texas Barbecue’, it’s one of those things where we want to be specific. We are not coming in trying to be what you are, and we want you to support the local spots, and the local barbecue here is phenomenal,” Pauly asserts.

That said, most Buc-ee’s enthusiasts in line tend to use the ubiquitous food influencer metric of “10/10, no notes” when asked to describe this brisket experience. 

The beaver cult may have come for them, because this is some of the worst barbecue to ever cross state lines. 

With a slimy viscosity and synthetic bite of liquid smoke, the brisket goes down like wet beef jerky, the fibers of the meat fusing with the snotty, reheated fat, while the peppery sauce unsubtly bends the force of your palate’s will to acquiesce to the concept that this is barbecue. 

It’s an abomination that is only marginally a win if you consider that this is gas station food. 

This, of course, is a cheat code, one that Buc-ee’s relies upon in its culinary and customer-service conquests. This brisket sandwich isn’t bad for a gas station. That bathroom was immaculate for a gas station! 

When the bar is low, any passing of the hurdle seems like a Herculean feat. Thus, the beaverian culture of mediocrity, in which everything you see in this grand, overwhelming space falls, becomes the only metric of judgment. Buc-ee’s asks us to judge not, lest we start judging, and if we were to do that, we might not know where to stop. 

The beaver wears a red hat for a reason

Perhaps it’s low-hanging fruit to take food critic swipes at the monolith that has now occupied the outskirts of our city. If we are to truly judge a cult, perhaps food and beverage is not a fair barometer. Instead, let’s take a look at the fruit of their works, and no, not the fairly fresh-looking portable fruit cups. 

For one couple in line for the Goodyear opening, traveling from Las Vegas and wearing matching commemorative Buc-ee’s t-shirts celebrating the birth of the country, being asked who they thought the eager beaver’s favorite president would be triggered an immediate, in unison response:

“Trump! He creates jobs, and Buc-ee creates jobs! They’re both getting things done!” the couple explains. 

Another Buc-ee goer, in line for the early morning festivities, rested a semi-automatic pistol and two clips on his hips as he scanned the horizon. According to his understanding of Buc-ee’s legalities, the great beaver permits open-carrying in the store, should you need it. 

It should come as little surprise that Arch “Beaver” Culpin III is known to be a prominent Republican-supporting donor in his home state of Texas, where he has, according to Transparency USA, donated more than half a million dollars to candidates such as Greg Abbott and Dan Patrick. He is also the front-facing litigator on the business side of things, taking smaller convenience stores to task for supposed copyright and IP infringement. 

His counterpart and co-owner, Don Wasek, is facing far more intense scrutiny, as his son, Mitchell, 29, was charged with 21 counts of “invasive visual recording” in 2024, according to Fox Austin 7. He is accused of secretly recording house guests in bathrooms and bedrooms.

These allegations, along with the blatant support for our 47th president, don’t seem to bother the teeming masses outside of Buc-ee’s, and in fact, for many, it seems to be a value add. This is fun. It’s just a gas station. They’re bringing jobs! They have brisket! The bathrooms – so clean! 

The bar, already low, hovers just over the floor. An army of buck-toothed beaver battalions, with mediocre Texas barbecue and AI-generated knick-knacks at the ready, would have us believe that this is the next iteration of American greatness. Join or die. Or, at the very least, miss out on these pecan rolls. 

So we stand here, at the brink of the last stages of unashamed consumerism. The blank, dead eyes of a cartoon rodent beckon us to get in line. You’d think here at the end of capitalism, they would at least have the decency to give us edible brisket.