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Dirty work: From septic tanks to sewer plants
Loudoun's population growth has bred countless debates on increased taxes, worsening traffic and the transforming landscape.Yet, few people discuss (or want to discuss) the resulting surge in toilets flushing, dishwashers churning and bathtubs draining.
Two hundred years ago, sewage disposal merely meant lugging chamber pots to a local stream, or digging a new hole for the outhouse.
Fortunately, in 2007, men and women work behind the scenes to make sure that Loudouners can flush in peace, never thinking about where the waste goes next.
But just in case you're curious ...
Draining a septic tank in Waterford
Patrick Shifflett leans over and spits chewing tobacco into a hole in the ground in the middle of Clark Griffith's back yard.
“This one's not a bad one. He actually takes care of his tank,” Shifflett says. At his feet, a 180-foot green hose sucks thick brown liquid out of the hole and vacuums it into a 2,600-gallon tank on his truck.
On the back of the truck is a small red sign that reads, “Got crap?”
Shifflett is co-owner of Lovettsville-based Dranesville Septic Service, which has cleaned Griffith's septic tank every two years for the last 30. Griffith's home on 10 acres in Waterford uses a 1,500-gallon septic tank and a large drain field to process his wastewater.
Earlier, Shifflett had stuck the hose in, and yelled to his father back at the truck to turn on the suction. A wiry 76-year-old, Jesse “Pop” Shifflett, founded the company in 1967, in Great Falls, which is where the name “Dranesville” came from. He said he guesses if he lives to be 100, he'll be working until he's 100.
There are more than 12,000 septic systems in Loudoun County, mostly in the western end of the county, outside of incorporated towns, said Alan Brewer, chief of environmental health for Loudoun County.
In Griffith’s back yard, the hole in the ground reveals two years' worth of toilet flushes, showers and dishwater. The substance is mostly liquid at the top, but once the tank is nearly drained, 6 inches of muck – a mass of toilet paper and other solids -- remains at the bottom.
A septic tank stores what remains after microorganisms break down much of the organic material, which then flows out to the drain field. Once there, gravel and soil further break down the wastewater.
But after a period of time – 3 to 5 years for traditional septic systems – the tank has to be emptied of the residual sewage.
There is no odor emanating from Griffith's tank. A smell would be an indication that the tank has not been cleaned for awhile, causing the drain field to fail.
In the worst cases of poor maintenance, the younger Shifflett has to climb into the tank to unclog the hole where wastewater should flow out to the drain field. Often the unclogging will cause a sudden burst of fluid that ends up all over his clothes. He wears no special clothes or mask – usually simply jeans and heavy-duty boots.
Once the truck’s tank is filled, the pair will drive down to a facility in eastern Loudoun and deposit their load. The sewage then travels down an enormous pipe to the Blue Plains Wastewater Treatment Plant in Washington, D.C. The service the company provides generally costs customers about $160.
Shifflett and his father, the only two employees at the company, clean an average of five septic tanks per day. During the summer months, when the days are long, they don't get home until 8 or 9 at night.
Patrick Shifflett is the youngest of nine children – the only one to join the family business – and is not squeamish about his work. “I could eat my lunch down [in the tank]. It doesn't bother me,” he said.
The years of cleaning human waste have brought along their share of stories. For example, every once in a while, said Shifflett, the tank will be full of snakes, which he sucks up along with everything else.
His father added an anecdote about another customer.
“The woman opened her toilet and there was snake in the bowl,” the elder Shifflett said.
Then there was the time the men got a call from a local retirement home. The manager had a special request: Drain the septic tank, but leave 6 inches of waste in the bottom. A couple who lived in the home lost a wedding ring down the drain, and he wanted to try to find it in the sludge.
“He was in there five minutes and came out yelling ‘Get me out of here! I hope they have insurance.’”
From screens to bugs: disposing of Leesburg's waste
Down a barely noticeable turnoff at the east end of Route 7 in Leesburg, a major process takes place every day: Nearly 5 million gallons of sewage and other wastewater is scrubbed clean and released into the Potomac River.
Though much of the process at Leesburg's Water Pollution Control Facility is automated, the staff at the plant work long hours to ensure that the waste of Leesburg’s growing population is disposed of properly. The bulk of the plant's staff make between $32,000 and $41,000 per year.
“There are quite a number of days a year ... where [staff members] have to stay overnight,” said Steve Cawthron, the plant's manager. “A lot of people sacrifice their weekends to do what needs to be done.”
One such worker is Charlie Elgin, assistant plant manager, who oversees the day-to-day operation of the plant's labyrinth of pipes and tanks. On a recent July morning, Elgin stuck his head over a chain-link fence and looked down at a large hole about 10 feet below. Brown liquid coursed out of it, which, he said, is raw sewage. Strangely, there’s no odor.
“We hit it with a little chlorine before it enters the system. That takes care of most of the smell,” he said.
A rake-like object, known as a bar screen, stops large solids – boards, rags -- from getting into the plant. One of those screens automatically deposits its load into a dumpster, destined for the landfill. But there is a second bar screen that has to be cleaned out manually by a staff member.
One of the most foul-smelling stations in the plant is where a substance known as “grit” is collected. Grit consists of mostly “gravel, razorblades and gum,” said Cawthron. This substance is also taken to the landfill.
Once the bigger objects are removed, a series of biological and chemical processes takes place. One area is descriptively called the “activated sludge tanks”: large rectangular pools with foamy brown liquid bubbling through them. This is where hungry bacteria do the real dirty work – eating the elements that could pollute our rivers, streams and drinking water.
“These bugs are our workers ... [they're] just like little Pac-Men,” Elgin said. “The happier they are, the happier we are.” Measures are taken to ensure that the bacteria are healthy and find plenty to eat.
Other processes take place that remove more and more unwanted substances. There’s a by-product of all this cleaning: bio-solids. The town completed a state-of-the-art facility six years ago that sanitizes and dries this substance into fertilizer, free for town residents.
A pile of files on his desk and the floor of his office offer a testament to Cawthron’s workload. Cawthron, who has worked at the plant more than 20 years, must ensure that the plant keeps up with twin demands: population growth and changes in environmental regulation, which aim to clean up local rivers and streams, as well as the biggest challenge of all – the Chesapeake Bay.
As soon as one major upgrade is finished, he says, another begins. They are currently in the middle of a $38 million project that will increase the plant's processing capacity from 4.85 to 7.5 million gallons per day, among other improvements.
At the end of the line, just before the effluent is pumped out to the Potomac, Elgin scooped some into a measuring cup. It was as clear as drinking water. According to Cawthron, the water is clean enough for the river, but not for drinking. It is pumped downstream of the intake pipe for Leesburg's water supply, just to be safe.
Contact the reporter at akeisman@timespapers.com
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