At 10:40am last Wednesday, I received an email with my campsite caretaking instructions for the week. Sometime between then and 3pm, when I set out for Moon Island, I packed the toilet cleaning bag with fresh rolls of toilet paper, disinfectant spray, paper towels, extra trash bags, and XS nitrile gloves (the only size I could find). I got in the boat, went to Moon, unloaded my camping gear, tossed a bag of pine shavings under the porch of the Moon toilet, and then proceeded to check the firewood supplies at Moon and Bowman before heading down to Chamberlain Reynolds Memorial Forest to do the same there. At about 4:30pm, I discovered two things simultaneously. One, that I had erred in my bathroom cleaning methodology, resulting in a steady flow of questionable light brown liquid emerging from both sides of the banjo fitting attaching the drainage tube to the bucket; and two, that my hands, whose naked fingers had just burst through my gloves, were not, in fact, XS.[1]
I realize in writing this that some phrases here may seem like non-sequiturs, if you are like the average person that I was before being introduced to a new canonical text: Joe Jenkins’s 1995 Humanure Handbook, the seminal treatise on compost toilets.[2] In my decade-plus as a compost enthusiast, this was the first I’d heard of composting human waste, and really the first time I’d considered the possibility that there could be something out there beyond the horizon of flush toilets.[3] The Humanure Handbook was required pre-orientation reading for the Squam Lakes Association’s LRCC members because it is we who do much of the mundane maintenance on our campsites’ compost toilets. Having now cleaned every compost toilet under our purview more than once, I feel ready to provide a ranking—primarily of the experience of cleaning them, but with some recommendations if you’re looking for a scenic pee as well.
THE WORST
Heron Cove might be the SLA’s most coveted campsite—and for good reason—but it ranks at the very bottom of my toilet cleaning power ranking. It’s the most private of our campsites, on its own peninsula, accessible only by boat via a dock charmingly labeled CAMPERDOCK ONLY (sic).[4] The toilet is located on the other side of the site from this dock, and thus necessitates permission from campers to access. Some campers might reject the camp host’s offer of toilet cleaning, thinking that they are doing her a favor, when in fact they are consigning her successor to a slightly unpleasant fate. The toilets at Heron Cove, Wister 234, and Bowman 4 are all bucket systems. To the user, the experience is as follows, if you follow signage properly: you open the door. You use a fairly standard looking toilet seat. You sprinkle a handful of wood shavings, close the lid and the door, and be on your way. Meanwhile, backstage: your waste[5] descends into a large plastic barrel suspended beneath the toilet on pulleys, with plastic tubing draining liquids into the ground. Your camp host must, in addition to standard front-of-house toilet cleaning, detach the barrel from pulley and hose to haul it over to the compost bin to empty it. If the barrel has not been emptied in several days, it becomes rather heavy. Slightly unpleasant!
MOON
The Moon toilet is a Clivus-Multrum Recycling Toilet. If the bucket system is taking a string of buses to get from DC to Boston, the Clivus is a bullet train.[6] Back-end maintenance of the Clivus simply involves raking down the piles of waste that build up beneath the toilet seats in the top chamber, so that it will eventually slooooowly decompose and fall to the bottom chamber, which will then be emptied once a year or so when it fills up. The Clivus also has a pump for fluids and a fan to help with odors, which are in theory run from a solar-charging battery. Unfortunately, this particular Clivus is thickly surrounded by hemlocks and thus receives very little sunlight,[7] leading to frequent battery death and strong aura of ammonia. The waste chambers are also located under the porch, which means that to rake the top one you have to crawl in and hunch down like a little troll.
Where we hide the Moon Clivus battery
WISTER 234
This one is higher than Moon because it doesn’t smell too bad, but it is a bucket system and detaching the hose is not the most fun.
WISTER 1
The Wister 1 Clivus actually works basically perfectly, but the doors have springs and swing shut[8] unless you have something to prop them open, which you usually don’t. There are also mice that shred the unopened toilet paper rolls to use as bedding. I am not overly fond of mice.
BOWMAN 4
Definitely has the best view of any of our toilets. If you are lucky enough to stay at Bowman 4, on the opposite side of the island from the 3 other sites, you will be treated to not one but two screened windows, on either side of the toilet. It is a bucket system, but the openness of the outhouse and proximity of the compost piles make it a pretty uneventful cleaning experience.
One of the views from the Bowman 4 toilet
BOWMAN CLIVUS
The Platonic ideal of compost toilets. Nice spacious porch, gets more sunlight, remains less odoriferous even when the fan isn’t running, easily accessible waste chambers. What more could you ask for? The Bowman 4 toilet I recommend for its view; Bowman Clivus I recommend for the joy of experiencing a well-functioning machine.[9]
The many features of the Bowman Clivus
The Bowman Clivus in all its majesty
I was slightly worried that my multi-day camping/toilet cleaning stint might dampen my appreciation of the compost toilet, but do not worry—I remain stalwart in my joy. I am actually just not that bothered by my close encounters with humanure. It’s nice to know exactly where our waste is going—into the compost heap—and what is happening to it—a combination of heat and bacteria will render it inert, organic material, to grossly simplify—and not only that it is flushed away to some unknown sewage treatment or septic situation. There are also just a lot of less useful and less fulfilling ways I could spend my time, and I mean that earnestly. Few things are more essential to human civilization than waste management,[10] thus ought we not consider cleaning toilets to be one of the purest forms of public service?
““The exercising of the human spirit can take many forms, and the simple act of cleaning up after oneself is one of them. The careless dumping of waste out into the world is a self-centered act of arrogance — or ignorance””
Maria is a full-term Trails and Access Assistant at the Squam Lakes Association. As a true compost-buff, she seriously considered bringing home a container of compostable materials from her compostless friend's kitchen after a visit to Boston. Learn more about her here!
[1] This was not, as you might assume, the worst event of my day. The worst part of my day was the interminable amount of time I spent trying and failing to dock the boat, extremely front-heavy with firewood, while a man in a large pontoon boat anchored next to the beach watched me from behind mirrored sunglasses without moving or saying anything. This? Excruciating. Mystery toilet juice on my bare knuckles? Merely an inconvenience.
[2] Now in its 4th edition.
[3] But don’t worry! I do feel guilty about every ounce of water I waste while showering or washing dishes. I’ve not been entirely without a conscience.
[4] This dock also has a sign inviting you to make camping reservations by calling 603-968-7331. You would probably be able to make a phone call, as there is actually reception, but you’re unlikely to get too far—this is some random person’s phone number. To contact the SLA, you may call 603-968-7336; a number which, unlike my mother’s new cell phone number, I do have memorized.
[5] Joe Jenkins might note here that humanure in a compost system is not in fact waste, per se, as it is recycled into humus and returns back to the soil.
[6] Many metaphors were tested here. For some reason, this was the only non-food one I could conjure.
[7] I’ve just been informed that hemlocks are some of the most shade-tolerant trees and will crowd out other trees. There are certainly a lot of hemlocks on Moon, as I know from the number of hemlock needles I unintentionally ingested in my camping sojourn.
[8] This is really a design feature and not a flaw, as I found other toilet doors left open on several occasions despite frequent signage requesting that users do the opposite.
[9] The White Mountains National Forest Headquarters in Campton has a Clivus system integrated in their building—all of the bathrooms have compost toilets!
[10] Unlike every other place I’ve ever lived, there is no trash pickup in Holderness—we have to take it all to the dump with our own hands. It humbling and a little disconcerting to be faced with remnants of the past weeks of your life tumbling into the trash compactor like that! I’ve really had to reckon with the number of empty plastic Greek yogurt containers our household exports.