The Tote Tank

The decision of my wife and I to purchase a fifth-wheel RV was accomplished in the usual manner we decide all things. First, there was the penny-pinching that enabled us to acquire the model we wanted with the correct features and get a good deal at the same time. That much was done with relative ease. A demo unit toy hauler with lots of little extras was selected for an appreciable amount below market value. Next came the customization aspect in which we tried to make this new way of living as close to our previous way of life as possible. This meant packing the trailer to within a few hundred pounds of what our truck could reasonably be expected to tote across the country, not even counting the two motorcycles we strapped into the garage part of the unit. This, of course, meant extra money had to be spent on gas and maintenance for the truck which launched us into a bit more liberal mode where spending was concerned.

Once we settled in the mountains of Georgia so we could both complete our educations, the penny-pinching aspect our decision making came back into play. Little necessities for RV living were either foregone or improvised using our collective and considerable imagination. The drop-down bed in the garage became not only a storage unit for when parked, but a unique way to bring two overstuffed leather chairs from the coffee shop we owned and which had a unique and essential place in our life together. The trailers internal speaker system was rewired to permit streaming the MP3 collection from our laptops wirelessly throughout the unit. The two pups accompanying our adventure received their own dog door cut into the rear of the trailer, complete with stepped gang-plank. They were kept close to home with a wireless radio collar system, scalable depending on campground size. The story of their training for this system is another tale in itself.

One aspect we were unprepared for in moving to different campsites, especially the more beatific state park locations, was the lack of suitably large sites with a sewage connection. Our total hitched length was somewhere approaching an uncomfortable fifty five feet. The thought of hitching up every few days, especially after settling in, just for a 10 minute dump station session was unbearable to both of us. A trip to the local RV store revealed our solution: a tote tank. Of course! This would work perfectly. It would be quick, easy, and sanitary. We would never even see the black and grey waters! Yet, the $200 price tag seemed a bit steep. After all, this was just a big bucket with wheels and some inexpensive fittings. The fateful words were uttered to my wife upon returning to our trailer.

“I could build one of those things for a fraction of the cost.”

In hindsight, that phrase appealed to the best and worst of our natures. My ego was boosted in the thought of using my engineering background to beat the system and my wife’s finance-trained mind perked to the idea of saving a lot of money. The wheels of destiny clicked and we made a trip to the home supply store.

Now, in my own defense, I was not reinventing the wheel. The concept behind a tote tank truly is quite simple. A large plastic container, using RV fittings, with a small pressure valve, and capable wheels to move what we approximated to be three hundred and twenty pounds of sewage down to the dump station. It could even be easily adapted to tow behind the truck! Further still, I did not fall into the trap of over-engineering the project as I so often do.

No, the next fateful decision came in what we found to be our tank: a $20 trash can with a somewhat snug lid, handle, and wheels. I knew I would have to epoxy and silicone the lid down for water fastness, in addition to installing the pressure valve and RV hook-ups. Between the home and RV stores that day, we spent roughly $60 on the requisite supplies needed for the project now commanding my life. When the wheel fell off the trash can in the parking lot of the store, only my wife had a vague feeling of unease settle in the back of her mind on the feasibility of our goal. I chalked it up to a bad locking nut and decided it could be easily repaired, made better even, with a simple bolt through the axle. For some reason, I never got around to actually making that repair.

We spent our evening outside, my wife getting some work done on her laptop as I dug into my task. I will not bore with the details of how I assembled everything, using what tools, dimensions, and so on. Suffice it to say that after nearly four hours of labor, my tote tank stood curing its silicone seals as I gratefully accepted a cold beer beer from my adoring wife, a look of manly pride on my face.

I typically rise two hours earlier in the morning than my wife. I dreamed of the envy other campers would have as I handled our sewage needs with ease for mere pennies compared to their own purchased solutions. I could even charge a small fee to less fortunate RV’ers and recoup my entire expense hauling away their waste with my space-age sewage equipment. I woke even earlier than usual the next day to begin the first test of my tank. Only chance lead me to read the silicone sealant tube which indicated twenty four hours were needed for a complete cure. I swallowed my eagerness and decided to not risk rushing things. After all, our holding tanks were still only halfway full and there was plenty of time to allow for a job well done.

It was before dawn when I got up the next morning and I practically ran outside to get started on testing. The tote tank looked good, everything felt dry and solid. We were go for launch. I laid the contraption on its back and connected a water hose, filling it as I would if this were the real thing. After what I estimated to be ten gallons had filled the tank, I noticed small drips coming from the backside of the tank lid, which had supposedly been sealed with marine epoxy and enough silicone to supply Beverly Hills debutantes for years to come. Neither substance was holding back the water, however, and I aborted the test.

I relayed the results to my wife over breakfast and she encouraged me to brainstorm a solution before abandoning the whole thing. A few flashes of insight and trips to the home supply store later, I had it solved. I would tear open the lid, apply more silicone, add a rubber gasket, more silicone atop that, and then bolt the lid down all around the edges. Another $40 and twenty eight hours of combined work and drying time went by before I had another chance to test my genius.
The next test would be critical. We were now nearly full in the tank most worrisome to me and time was running out. I checked the seals once again, felt the tightness of the bolts, and commenced filling it with water just as before. There were perhaps twenty five gallons flooding the container when I noticed only the barest of droplets forming around that same back side of the lid. I halted the water and watched them for a few minutes, struggling to decide what to do next. We had already spent so much money and time that this latest leak, while miniscule in comparison to the first, fell within my ever widening margins of tolerance. I decided that at least one good use of the tank was in order before redesigning the entire thing, or actually purchasing the completed unit from the RV store. That latter choice had been asserting itself as more and more favorable throughout this entire project.

No half measures for me, I decided to get the worst of our problems out of the way with what I predicted would be our only use of this incarnation of my tank design. The black water tank would be full in another day or two and I could not risk another redesign or rebuild. It had to go now and I steeled myself for the possible leakage the tiny drops now falling from the back of the lid would entail. Before beginning, I pulled the truck around and got everything ready, including a spare water hose to wash my hands of the waste which would surely have dripped onto the handle from the faulty lid seal.
The pieces set, I double-checked the hose connections, uttered a small prayer to whatever saints watch over foolish campers, and pulled the release lever of the black tank. The very first thing I noticed was how well the pressure valved functioned as air rushed out of the rapidly filling tank. I was suddenly and extremely thankful I had decided not to light a cigarette while performing this operation. The resulting explosion might have taken out not just my toy hauler, but neighboring sites as well.

The expected drips formed on the back of the lid and I gulped hard, willing the tank to finish filling so I could get it out of here and be done with this business. As the tank neared two thirds full, something else occurred even as a moment of clarity made me realize why it was occurring. Human waste, even in liquid form, weighs far more than water alone. The now nearly full tank was starting to deform around the bolts, pushing out the rubber gasket and turning a tiny leak into a steady dribble. This was going very bad, very fast.

I heard the last of the liquid enter the tank and I quickly shut down the release lever and uncoupled the hose. Only dextrous fingers allowed me to get the cap on the tank before being assaulted with enough noxious gas to subdue a herd of charging rhinos. The thin plastic of the garbage can was now bulging in wholly unexpected places. There were leaks starting to form around the other bolts and a panic came over me to get this thing out of here. I swallowed pride and a rising gorge, grasped the handle and lifted. The act of moving the tank further deformed it and my hands were bathed in what only can be described as highly hazardous waste material.

Adrenaline fueled my frantic tugging of the tank to the waiting truck where I was greeted with another not-thought-through aspect of my planning. The towing of the tank had been a given, but not how it would actually be accomplished. The smell of human sewage and sight of brown liquid covering my hands caused me to grab the only thing I could find. I fastened a nine foot cable used for locking our motorcycles together and quickly fashioned a tow strap for the tank. It would be dragging on its back side, down a gravelly hill, and nearly three hundred yards along a paved road to the dump station. Only thoughts of getting it away kept me from being overwhelmed by these details.

I doused my hands with clean water and jumped in the truck. I knew I had to take it slow, but with a steadily growing leak from the lid of the tank, slow was being redefined faster and faster in my mind. I only made it out of the driveway and onto the pavement when I noticed the spreading liquid behind me. I stopped the truck and went to examine in horror the results of low grade plastic against sharp gravel.

The tank had fortunately flipped over during the turn out of the campsite. I looked back up the hill to see the drag marks in the gravel and a lone plastic wheel two feet from where I had started the tow. Somewhere along the way, a one inch hole had been worn in the back side of the tank, now staring up at me in a mocking moment of man looking at his own glorified diaper. To add an outside judgment aspect to my situation, I spied the camp ranger making his morning rounds, coming around the bend behind me. My truck was blocking the path and there was no chance he would not see me. I said a few words, which also happened to described the liquid my feet were now coated with.

At that particular time, I really had no affection for our ranger. He stood outside of his truck, berating me from a distance about using the proper containers for moving waste, pointing out the obvious contamination of the area, and the fact that I had to clean it up. Now more humbled than I had been in some time, though not as much as I was about to be, I accepted his sermon and he left me to figure a way out of this literal mess.

In times like these, a man reverts to a primal nature, fortunately bringing to the surface abilities and ideas which have kept our species alive for millennia. I realized the only way to get the tank to the dump station quickly and relatively cleanly would be on the back of the truck. Using the strength of my caveman forefathers, I dead lifted the approximately three hundred pound tank onto the the tailgate. I am athletic and fit, lifting weights throughout my youth. Only having to lift it three feet off the ground and onto the gate was the easy part. The far more difficult task was keeping from vomiting as liquid waste shot through the whole, saturating me from the neck down. It only took a few seconds for the entire ordeal, but I stood dripping at the back of the truck for several minutes following, trying to bring back under control a reeling mind and severely wounded pride.

The trip to the station was less eventful, though riding with most of my body out the door so the only dry patch of my pants touched the seat was interesting. I arrived back home, useless and now empty tank in the bed of the truck. My wife caught the look on my face as I demanded my bathrobe at the door to our trailer. Her quick mind caught site of the tank, the drag marks in the gravel, and my own appearance. Being good at math helped her put it all together more quickly than I ever could have and she handed me the robe without a word.

I stripped off clothes behind our site, throwing them into a bucket of soapy water. I immediately entered the shower inside and exited to find breakfast and coffee waiting for me. We went to the RV store that very day to plunk down $140 for a professionally made tank, on sale, with tow bar, coupling hoses, and fittings all included.