The First Time I Fired a Salt Kiln
Fifty pots, a canyon wind, a stalled kiln and fifty pounds of salt. My first salt firing taught me timing matters more than volume.
For my first salt firing at Utah State, I threw about fifty lightly glazed pots in two weeks. Canyon wind blew out the burners overnight, we relit and climbed again, and started salting at cone 8 with about fifty pounds of salt. The results were just fine. Salting earlier, around cone 7, gives better surfaces with less salt.
- Light glaze on purpose, so the salt could do the work
- A stalled firing is humbling, not catastrophic
- Salt is a conversation, not a command
When I was invited to be part of my first salt firing, I did not play it safe. I went back to the studio and started throwing like I meant it.
Fifty pots in two weeks
For two weeks straight, I made pots with that firing in mind, about fifty of them. Mugs, bowls, simple forms. Nothing complicated. I kept the shapes honest and restrained, and I glazed them lightly on purpose. I did not want glaze to steal the show. I wanted the salt to do the work.
Salt firing had already taken hold of me by then. The unpredictability. The way flame and vapor move through a chamber. The way surfaces come out looking weathered instead of painted. It felt alive compared to controlled electric firings.
Loading, and the canyon wind
When we loaded the kiln, I remember the weight of it. Wadding under every piece. Shelves set tight but not suffocating, with enough space for the flame to move. The door bricked up carefully. Burners steady. Everything sealed and intentional.
Then the canyon wind reminded us who was really in charge. Sometime overnight, the burners blew out. Nothing dramatic and no damage, just silence where flame should have been. The next morning we realized the firing had stalled. That meant relighting, rebuilding heat and repeating hours of climb. It was not catastrophic, but it was humbling. Salt firing is not convenient.
Salting at cone 8
We brought it back up. Monitored the pressure. Adjusted the air. Checked cones. And then we did what students do during a long university firing: went to class, checked in when we could, rotated shifts, and trusted the process. By around 7 that evening, the kiln reached cone 8. That is when the atmosphere changes.
Salting a kiln is physical. You introduce salt through ports at temperature and it vaporizes instantly. The flame shifts and the chamber responds. There is a sense that something irreversible is happening inside. We started salting, and we did not hold back. One charge after another. Watching the flame. Waiting for a response. Adding more. By the end, we had used around fifty pounds of salt. At the time it felt like commitment. If a little salt creates texture, a lot must create more, right?
Fine is not what we hoped for
When we finally opened the kiln days later, the surfaces were fine. Some orange peel, some flashing, some movement. But not what we imagined after hauling in that much salt. Not dramatic, not rich, not as alive as we expected. That was the turning point.
We learned later that starting the salting earlier, around cone 7 instead of waiting until cone 8, gave the vapor more time to react with the silica in the clay. It made better surfaces with less salt. Timing mattered more than volume. That lesson stuck with me more than any dramatic result could have. Salt firing is not about force or dumping in more material and hoping for magic. It is about reading heat, understanding atmosphere, and introducing the right thing at the right time.
That first firing did not give me perfect pots. It gave me perspective. It taught me that salt is a conversation, not a command. And that is what made me want to do it again.
Keep a firing log with the time, cone and how much salt went in for every charge. After a few firings, you can line up the log against the pots and see which timing actually gave you the surface you liked.
Learning the hard way and still grateful for the heat. The next salt firing will be in my own kiln.
