There are always indicators when a small Texas town is destined for something great. Duck confit pops up on a restaurant menu. A technology start-up moves in. And, at least in the case of Luling, the largest convenience store on the planet opens its doors.
Sitting at the confluence of Interstate 10, U.S. 183, U.S. 90, and Texas Highway 80, this farming-and-ranching community celebrated its 150th anniversary this year, and its nickname—the Crossroads to Everywhere—feels particularly apt.
Most tourists venture to Luling in pursuit of classic Central Texas barbecue or world-class watermelons, which, born of a fortuitous combination of loamy soil and unrelenting sunshine, grow here in motley abundance and have been celebrated for more than seventy years by townspeople—and now around 30,000 visitors—on the last weekend of every June at a festival called the Watermelon Thump.
Soon enough, though, a private eighteen-hole golf course designed by the highly regarded Kyle Franz is expected to open; it will feature some 1,100 acres of rolling, barranca-riven terrain surrounded by cow pasture. In a section of the town’s decommissioned airport, New Mexico–based X-Bow Systems (that’s pronounced “Crossbow,” by the way) is developing a $25 million complex that will bring an influx of new residents to build rocket motors for the space and defense industries. The U.S. Economic Development Administration awarded Luling a $1 million grant last year to improve infrastructure and encourage growth in the aerospace manufacturing sector, and the town has even been classified as an “emerging brewscape” by the Texas Craft Brewers Guild, a sure sign that social media influencers are on the way.
Perhaps most indicative of Luling’s rising star is that it’s now home to the world’s largest Buc-ee’s. With his buckteeth and nugget-eating grin, Texas’s favorite beaver may not look like a genius, but he knew what he was doing when he located the first of his travel centers—the massive roadside attractions that made the brand famous—in Luling, on I-10, in 2003. This past June, that roughly 35,000-square-foot store was replaced by the biggest of the “Shangri-la of service stations,” as Florida Governor Ron DeSantis once called the Lake Jackson–based empire. The new store was erected next to the original, which was then demolished.
During my weekend in Luling, I spent a night in a charming farmhouse not far from downtown, booked through Airbnb. The requisite front porch looked out on grazing cattle, a marvelous sunset, and, glowing red and yellow between a gap in the trees, the round Buc-ee’s sign that towers over I-10, beckoning to me like a cheerful lighthouse. I had no choice but to drive over and marvel at the more than 75,000-square-foot store, starting with the 120 shiny fuel pumps outside. The interior felt familiar but refreshingly roomier, packed with the many conveniences you never knew you needed (a fanny pack for your tumbler) and many you clearly do, such as the bags of Gummi Bears and Chili Chees’n Crackers I brought back to my little house on the prairie.
All of this commercial activity may seem like quite the boon for a town of six thousand or so, but it’s not as if Luling hasn’t been here before. You can learn about the last growth spurt to sway its fortunes at the Luling Information Station, at the heart of downtown, right next to the railroad tracks. Inside a small, unmanned building, you’ll find a library’s worth of Luling tourism pamphlets; outside is a tableau of red, gray, and black metal sculptures that depict the process of procuring oil, the discovery of which, in 1922, upended the once quiet community of 1,500 souls.
Luling was established in 1874, when the western terminus of the Sunset branch of the Southern Pacific Railroad was temporarily situated here, offering an opportunity for cattle ranchers and cotton farmers to export their products. But the town really hit its stride when Edgar B. Davis, a wealthy businessman from Massachusetts, followed his wildcatting brother to Luling and, after drilling one dry hole after another, hit on an oil patch that turned out to be twelve miles long and two miles wide. By 1924, the field was producing more than eleven million barrels a year.
In modern-day Luling, Union Pacific trains still lumber right through the middle of town. And the occasional gassy whiff of hydrogen sulfide from low-output but still-active wells commingles with woodsmoke from 66-year-old City Market, whose pit room this magazine once called “the holy of holies,” and from Luling Bar-B-Q, a relative newcomer at only 38 years old, which holds its own in a homey spot across the road.
The 180 or so remaining pump jacks would likely draw little attention if a few of them weren’t so darn cute. More than a dozen of the nodding donkeys, so named for their up-and-down movement, have been accessorized over the years with cleverly painted plywood and metal parts that depict animated tales: a cow jumping over the moon, a young girl picking flowers, and a redheaded boy eating—what else—a slice of watermelon. For a self-guided tour, pick up a map at the Information Station.
Just south of town, a cluster of seven historic buildings on the San Marcos River collectively tell the story of the city long before black gold and beavers made an appearance. The Zedler Mill complex, named for the family who owned the property for generations, has at turns been a water and energy source for Luling, as well as a gristmill, cotton gin, and sawmill. In 2002 the city acquired the property and five years later joined forces with the Zedler Mill Foundation to restore and transform the grounds and decaying structures into a free museum and city park. Walk the sloping lawn down to the river, whose placid water spills through the dam—first made of stones, in 1874, then wood, and now concrete—that for years powered the whole enterprise. Then wander through mule barns and corn cribs, past rusty, dusty artifacts, and try to picture these silent, weathered buildings as a bustling hub for industry. Splintered, sun-warmed wood creaks and pops; Keep Out signs block rickety stairways; and the only visible activity is that of mud daubers and spiders.
Just as I was thinking the place would make a great setting for a scary movie, I came across a display of film posters. Some of these structures played a role in Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof, Robert Rodriguez’s Planet Terror, and a 1990 Dennis Hopper–directed romantic thriller called The Hot Spot; the poster shows Don Johnson creepin’ up on a beguiled Virginia Madsen with the text “There are only two things to do in this small town. One is watching TV.”
I beg to differ. Luling has plenty to offer, and it shows no sign of surrendering its kindheartedness and fun-loving spirit to encroaching citification. Perhaps it’s a vestige of the legendary generosity of Edgar B. Davis, who dedicated much of his fortune to the improvement of the town that helped make continued growth possible. Friendly drivers wave you through at busy intersections, and residents display their names on their gates and mailboxes. At the stores and restaurants that populate the historic buildings lining East Davis, shopkeepers chat with you as if they’ve known you forever, and old friends catch up on the sidewalk.
And watermelons aren’t the only thing they celebrate. Luling has a yearlong roster of community activities that includes a chili-and-barbecue cook-off, as well as events and fundraisers featuring classic cars, quilts (there’s a store downtown devoted to quilting), and locally made arts and crafts. At the Crossroads to Everywhere, you’ll find a store with everything you could need for a road trip, but you might just want to stay a while.
Beyond the Beaver
A Luling weekend itinerary.
Shop
From Haviland porcelain to old copies of TV Radio Mirror, treasures abound at Luling Emporium. Suzanne’s Designs sells flowers, gifts, and clothing adorned with watermelons. KK’s Antiques & Candy is self-explanatory, and Body by Arden Jane offers essential oils and other fragrant indulgences. Browse for tableware in Southwestern hues at Luling Icehouse Pottery, located in a former ice factory. About three miles southwest of downtown, the pastoral Luling Lavender Fields sells all manner of products devoted to the purple plant.
Eat
City Market and Luling Bar-B-Q are musts, the former for its famous pit room, where brisket, sausage, and ribs are sliced to order, and the latter for more smoked-meat variety and pies with impossibly puffy meringues. In Good Spirits is a wine shop and restaurant bringing Austrian Zweigelt, duck leg confit, and escargot to a beer-and-beef-loving town. Next door, Blake’s serves steaks and burgers to Wrangler-clad ranchers. Swoonworthy Sourdough sells olive bread and pecan pies; Hermanos offers tacos and chalupas; and Lugo’s is a roadside gem serving all-day breakfast.
Stay
Hotel options have yet to expand beyond interstate staples, so thank goodness for Wahwahtaysee, a resort of luxury tents and cabins ten miles west of town. (Pick up a fresh-made sandwich at Brandini’s along the way.) Sit on your porch and watch cardinals flitting about bois d’arc trees, or nestle up to the firepit and gaze at the stars twinkling overhead.
This article originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of Texas Monthly with the headline “This Town Isn’t as Quaint as It Seems.” Subscribe today.
