Bangor Cave: The Great Southern Speakeasy

Words by Rachael Fowler

Blount Springs is an area about 30 miles north of Birmingham. Many travelers speed right through it, never even glance at the unassuming town, and certainly don’t consider stopping. Tere are better cities, they say. Huntsville, Mobile, Montgomery. But Blount Springs protects a secret.

It’s not the infamous Top Hat Barbecue, which seeps paprika and garlic into the air and promises hushpuppies, fried pickle spears, and jalapeño poppers. It’s not the Blount Springs Chapel on Main Street with the four white columns and polished pine doors. Everyone knows the wealthy Antebellum South used the town as a resort, and that Nathan Bedford Forrest fought a battle on Blount Springs land. Iron ore once ruled the economy, and there are blind cave fsh in small pools throughout Rickwood Caverns. Just of BeeLine Highway there are sulphur springs, a cemetery, and a Baptist church. All of this is common knowledge.

But enchanting tales don’t live in city centers. Te secrets of this area hide deep in the woods—the history sleeps in a cave.

Bangor Cave is carved into Alabama just outside of Blount Springs in the locality known as Bangor. Te cave was there when the wealthy resort-goers visited, and when the Civil War ended. In the 1850s, a mill owner bought and developed the property into the “Great Southern Cave,” which consisted of fve separate rooms.

But then there was a fre, and then there was the Great Depression.

If Gatsby is your type of thing, then 1930s Bangor Cave would’ve been for you. It wasn’t quite the roaring twenties (as it wasn’t the twenties at all), but it dazzled nonetheless; a bar chiseled out of natural stone, stocked with Jameson and moonshine; a bandstand fush to the cave itself, stacked with horns and drums and microphones; a dance foor, card tables, roulette. Te wealthiest people danced, drank, and gambled in secrecy. Bangor Cave was a brightly lit underground speakeasy in the heart of the South.

Tough Prohibition was doomed from the start, that didn’t stop authorities from busting into the cave to infict the law on the parties. Te nightclub closed in 1939, and then the cave burned black. It’s much diferent now. Tere are no people, no lights. Te bar and bandstand remain, but littered, graftied. Te cave has lost its sparkle. Te party has moved on.

If you want to see the ruins, there are ways. However, know the cave is privately owned. Know that you exit I-65 and still have a ways to drive. Know that you park on the side of the road and still have a ways to hike. Tere are few signs, the trail is faint, the trees are strong, and if you stumble up to the cave entrance, you have a decision to make.

Why are you there to begin with? If you spelunk, then move along—there are better caves to explore. If you want pictures, move along—there’s nothing lef to capture. If you want history, consider a book—the cave is dark and deep.

What do you expect from ruins? Te glamour of forbidden fun no longer echoes through the cave. No bartender will slide you a sidecar. No brass will blair Billie Holiday. Tere will be no swinging across a dance foor, no hush-hush. No, “Quiet, they’re coming.” It’s just a cave with trash and vandalism for company. Te cave is just a cave.

If you’re me, you don’t go in. You drive all the way to the exit, you park on the side of the road, you hike. But before you enter the cave, you stop. You think about how great you actually want the cave to be. You think about the Gatsby image you have in your mind, and you don’t want the image to change. So you don’t risk losing the sparkle, the music, the history you admire. You pick up a few Natty Light cans, twirl your car keys in your hand, and turn around. As your feet brush through crunchy leaves, you realize the cave is dynamic. For truly it’s both the same and diferent.

It was there for the parties, was there to burn black. People still drink there, still cruise up with cases of beer and bags of Cheetos and fashlights. People still party there illegally. Bangor Cave is still the party cave. It’s just not as shiny now, just a bit duller.

But the cave is still the cave. We are the ones who have lost our sparkle. It’s our veneer that’s peeled of. Ours is the party that’s moved on.