When the Black Tank Blues Aren’t Even Yours

Some seasons on the road are smooth. Others come with a full-blown case of what I like to call the Black Tank Blues.

The summer of 2025 handed me the deluxe edition.

Most years, I’ll have one or two “memorable” black tank events—the kind of disasters you only laugh about after you’ve changed clothes and the smell has finally surrendered. But that summer, the black tank gremlins were working overtime.

Now, this particular story isn’t even about my black tank, which almost makes it worse. I was an innocent bystander. No hoses hooked up wrong, no valves left closed, no rookie mistakes. I was just minding my own business… and still ended up soaked, smelly, and swearing.

I had rolled into Mountain Cove Farms Resort in Chickamauga, Georgia, for the 11th Annual Cowboy & Cowgirl Reunion—a weekend full of rodeo stories, cowboy church, and good friends. Bertie Bea was leveled and settled, awning out, chairs in the shade. Boots off, book in hand, cicadas humming, horses nickering in the distance. One of those rare quiet moments on the road when everything feels just right.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was an old friend, one of those guys you’ve known long enough that you never hesitate to pick up. He’d just pulled in with his travel trailer a few sites over, but his voice had that tone every RVer recognizes—the “I’ve got a problem and I don’t know what to do” tone.

“Hey, Stan, you got a minute? I can’t get water to my sink or shower.”

Book down. Hat on. Off I went.

On the back of his trailer were two hose connections. One was clearly labeled “City Water Connection.” The other? No label. Just a lonely brass fitting daring someone to guess wrong.

I didn’t like the feeling creeping into my gut.

Sure enough, his fresh water hose was not connected to the city water inlet. It was hooked up to the black tank flush.

If you’re new to RV life, the black tank flush sprays water into your sewage tank to rinse it out—after you’ve dumped it. If you leave the valve closed and keep pumping water in, you’re basically turning your black tank into a water balloon.

I asked if he’d noticed water running anywhere strange.

“Yeah,” he said, pointing to the roof. “I thought maybe the air conditioner was leaking.”

Oh, it was leaking all right. Just not what he thought.

When your black tank is full with nowhere else to go, it finds a way. In this case, it was burping up and out of the roof vent. Brown streaks on a white travel trailer are not the kind of campground accent you’re going for.

Still trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I asked, “No water coming out of the sinks? The shower?”

He shook his head.

That’s when my stomach sank. I knew exactly what had happened.

We moved the hose to the correct connection and, like magic, his faucets sprang to life. He grinned, relieved. Me? I had that uneasy, twitchy feeling you get when you know the worst part of the story hasn’t arrived yet.

I excused myself, walked into his bathroom, and pressed the flush pedal on the toilet.

And that’s when Mount Vesuvius erupted.

Not steam. Not lava. Something far worse.

With a violent gurgle, his black tank unleashed its fury straight upward, and I happened to be standing at ground zero. One second, I was pressing a pedal, the next, I was baptized in a shower of sewage.

I don’t remember exactly what came out of my mouth, but I can promise you it wasn’t fit for Sunday school. I yelled, slammed the toilet lid down, and stumbled backward as I’d just survived a geyser in Yellowstone.

The smell? Let’s just say it was… memorable.

By the time the eruption subsided, I was standing there dripping, shoes ruined, dignity long gone. And then—I laughed. Because honestly, what else do you do when you’ve just taken your third shower of the day: one planned, one courtesy of a toilet, and one to wash off the aftermath?

My friend stood there wide-eyed, like a kid who’d just set off fireworks in the living room. “I’m so sorry,” he stammered.

I waved him off. “Buddy, don’t apologize. Just learn. And maybe buy me a new shirt.”

Here’s the thing: he wasn’t a rookie. He’d been RVing for years. But that’s the Black Tank Blues for you—they don’t care if it’s your first trip or your hundredth. One wrong connection, one missing label, and you’ve got a story that will follow you forever.

These days, my recommendation is simple, and I share it with anyone who will listen:

• Pay attention to your connections.
• Labels exist for a reason.
• If your rig doesn’t have labels, make some—Sharpie, label maker, duct tape, whatever it takes.

Because the last thing you want is to confuse your city water inlet with your black tank flush. Trust me, it’s a mistake you only make once.

As for me, I headed back to Bertie Bea, peeled off my foul-smelling clothes, and took another long, scalding shower. Then I poured myself a stiff drink, sat back under the awning, and shook my head.

The Black Tank Blues had struck again—only this time, I wasn’t even the one at fault.

That’s RV life in a nutshell. Sometimes you’re the victim of your own mistakes, and sometimes you’re just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, you learn, you laugh, and eventually… You tell the story.

And if you’re me, you buy soap in bulk, too. Because you never know when you’ll need that third shower of the day.