History of Salt in Alabama

A Storied Seasoning: The History of Salt in Alabama

Long before salt found its way into our flaky finishing jars, it shaped the story of Alabama—drop by drop, crystal by crystal.

Salt Before Statehood: The Native Way

Long before Europeans arrived, Alabama’s original salt-makers were the Indigenous peoples of the lower Tombigbee River valley. Tribes like the Tohome gathered brine from natural salt springs—some of the only ones in the entire state—and boiled it down or dried it in clay pans under the sun. Salt wasn’t just a seasoning; it was currency. French explorers in 1701 recorded that Native groups traded their “very good salt” across vast distances, even reaching the Choctaws seven days' journey away. This was salt with value, heritage, and deep roots.

Colonial Salt: Imported and Essential

In the 1700s and early 1800s, settlers along Mobile Bay and the Gulf Coast depended almost entirely on imported salt—hauled in on wooden ships from Europe and the Caribbean. It cured pork in smokehouses, kept fish fresh from the Gulf, and preserved the staples of Southern life. The colonists knew of Alabama’s natural salt springs thanks to Native Americans, but most preferred the predictability of imports over boiling brine in the Southern heat.

Still, the land remembered. Place names like Salitpa in Clarke County echo Choctaw words for salt, and pioneers quietly tapped into springs in places like Jackson, Alabama.

Salt in the Civil War: Alabama’s White Gold

When the Civil War cut off Southern trade, salt transformed overnight from a kitchen staple to a strategic resource. The Confederacy needed over 300 million pounds of salt a year to preserve meat, cure leather, and keep armies fed.

Suddenly, Alabama was rich in what mattered most.

On the shores of Bon Secour Bay, long sheds and rows of iron pans sprang up, boiling seawater into thousands of bushels of salt. Inland, at the salt springs of Clarke County, entire salt cities emerged—swampy encampments lit by the fire of 5,000 workers boiling brine day and night. Families camped near furnaces. Wagons lined the muddy roads. Workers were sometimes paid in salt itself. It was worth more than gold.

These sites became targets. In 1864, Union forces destroyed the Bon Secour works—smashing 990 iron kettles and burning 55 furnaces in a single raid. Some say the ghostly ruins remained visible for years, iron pots rusting in the marsh grass, stories whispered about buried salt and the men who vanished with it.

Salt and Survival: Recipes, Remedies, and Folklore

For generations, salt wasn’t just about flavor—it was life or death. Alabama families preserved pork, pickled okra, and packed fish in brine long before refrigeration. When salt ran low during the war, people scraped dirt from smokehouse floors, boiled it, and strained out what they could.

Folk remedies passed down for generations used salt to clean wounds, soothe throats, and ward off spirits. Salted pork was pressed to boils. A pinch over the shoulder protected from bad luck. Fishermen sprinkled salt on decks for good fortune. From medicine to mysticism, salt had a place in every Alabama home.

Post-War to Modern Day: From Industry to Artisanal

After the war, Alabama’s salt industry went quiet. Imports returned. Giant underground salt domes were tapped for industrial brine, feeding paper mills and chemical plants—not pantries.

But tradition has a way of resurfacing.

Today, at Fairhope Salt Company, we hand-harvest salt from the same Gulf waters that once nourished a region. We sun-evaporate with care, embracing the heritage of generations who knew the land, the sea, and the power of something as simple—and essential—as salt.

We don’t just make salt.
We honor the stories it carries.