Antrim — Antrim County is a black hole of bad roads. The worst of the worst. If you are thinking of traveling here when it’s snowing, don’t. If your map has you cruising on 131 through this small strip of land, wait. And if you must, go slow.
Antrim is one of the snowiest counties below the bridge—along with Kalkaska County, Grand Traverse County, Missaukee County, Otsego County, and Crawford County—which consistently receive the heaviest snow in the lower peninsula.
While the whole region gets pummeled, Antrim County is the mysterious epicenter of horrid roads. It’s in a menacing league all its own. I’ve driven north on 131 and 31 countless times in all kinds of winter weather. Through the middle of the night, with dark heavy flakes falling, and over slush-covered roads in the early morning, not a plow in sight. Total whiteouts. In all my experience driving in the North, the roads are always most disastrous in Antrim County, no question.
It boggles the mind, because Antrim County doesn’t actually get more snow than Kalkaska County. Antrim gets an average of 98 inches per year. Kalkaska gets 110. The plow numbers are comparable as well. The Antrim County Road Commission told me that in a snowstorm they expect to have about 18 plows out on the road. The Kalkaska County Road Commission told me that they expect to have between 16 and 18 out on the road. Curious.
In terms of elevation, the east side of Antrim county—where 131 runs—is one of the higher regions in the Lower Peninsula, but the entire north central region of Michigan rests at a similar point above sea level. Looking at the topography, 131 sits on the western edge of the slope. Tracking 131, there is a slight 50-foot increase in elevation from the southern end of Kalkaska County to the northern edge of Antrim County. Is that enough to account for the uniquely hellish roads? Mysterious.
Perhaps Antrim County just has too many roads to plow. Antrim has both 31 running along the water and 131 on the eastern edge, and 31 is just as dicey as 131. Or maybe it’s the open fields that make 131 so bad. The snow starts blowing across the open expanse, and the drifting gets worse. Or maybe it is some mysterious cocktail of winter happenstance that mercilessly punishes weary travelers.
We all have the roads we revile and dread in the winter. We all swear we know the worst stretch. But I maintain, without any doubt in my heart, that Antrim County roads are almost supernaturally bad.
My most memorable drive in Antrim was three years ago. It was during a snowstorm in the middle of the night. My wife was in labor with our second child. The temperature was hovering right around 31 degrees. Terrible conditions. Huge wet flakes coming down. Slick roads. The visibility couldn’t have been more than 20 feet. We had to go 25 mph in a 55 zone. Following a county snowplow on the north end of Antrim county, a huge chunk of ice flew off the back and smacked the front of our car just under the bumper. It didn’t sound great. The snowplow turned off and went down another road. We continued on.
Over the next 35 minutes, the car slowly began overheating. The temperature gauge gradually climbed. At one point, the heat stopped working. The car was getting cold. Our son curled up with a blanket in the back. The conditions only got worse as we drove south though Antrim. Not a soul on the road.
There’s nothing open on 31 at 3 a.m. in Antrim County, so we couldn’t stop. We had to make it to the hospital in Traverse City. The car would either make it there, or we would have to arrive by ambulance. At one point, I quietly leaned over and calmly told my wife, who was listening to soothing music on the stereo, that, “I just want to update you on the situation and let you know that there is no need for concern, but the car is probably going to break down at some point. Don’t worry, we will make it as far as we can, and then we are going to call an ambulance. Everything will be fine.”
Our car never made it out of Antrim County. I knew the jig was up when I was flooring it and our speed was slowing, the car unable to make it up a hill. Just outside of Elk Rapids, right on the county line, our old Volvo with 177,000 miles overheated on the side of the road. We called an ambulance, my son and I followed in a cop car, and a few hours later, our daughter was born in Traverse City.
Bad roads and white-knuckled driving aside, Antrim county did give us a story we will never forget. Sometimes bad roads aren’t all bad.
O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X @NecktieSalvage.
