1. Arrival and First Impressions
Stepping into Erie felt like opening a page from a well-worn journal — the kind of place that remembers its seasons in the worn grain of its boardwalks and the whisper of wind through tall pines. The air was crisp with a hint of lake scent, carrying the memory of distant water and damp earth. I arrived just after sunrise, the streets still yawning from their slumber, and the sky dusted with the kind of peach and violet tones that only happen near large bodies of water.
After checking into a small inn tucked near West 8th Street — a two-story building that creaked in all the right nostalgic ways — I set my gear down, laced my boots tighter, and made my way toward Presque Isle State Park. There’s something quietly electric about the beginning of a journey, especially when the terrain ahead holds as much promise as Erie’s does for those drawn to trail and path.
2. Presque Isle State Park: Looping Around a Peninsula of Wonder
There’s a sacred kind of hush that falls over Presque Isle in the early morning. Birdsong rises like incense from the underbrush, and the waves of Lake Erie slap gently against the sandy shores, as if reminding the land that water is always just a breath away. The 13.5-mile loop trail around the park was my first venture. I took the trail clockwise, starting at the Tom Ridge Environmental Center and cycling northward along Peninsula Drive.
The loop is paved and friendly for cyclists of all levels, but it’s not just about the biking. Every couple of miles, I dismounted to explore hidden coves, beach access points, and marshland overlooks. At Graveyard Pond, I spotted a great blue heron frozen in the act of fishing, its silhouette caught like sculpture against the cattails. By Beach 11, I walked barefoot along the damp shore, the lake reaching cold fingers toward my ankles.
Cyclists share the trail with joggers, skaters, and families out for a leisurely ride. The energy is convivial without being intrusive. Around mile seven, I stopped at Perry Monument and stretched beneath a weathered tree. The breeze off the lake carried the tang of algae and freshwater — not always pleasant, but grounding in its honesty.
What struck me most was the diversity of terrain within such a compact loop. From thick woodlands to breezy dunes, from calm lagoons to bustling beaches, each bend felt like opening a new chapter. The park breathes, flexes, and exhales across its miles.
3. Asbury Woods: Hiking Into the Heart of the Forest
The next morning, I drove southwest to Asbury Woods, where the forest felt less manicured and more lived-in. There’s something humbling about paths that feel like they’ve grown into the ground rather than been laid upon it. The Brown’s Farm Barn Trailhead served as my entry point. I followed the Green Trail first — a 1.1-mile loop through hardwood forest, where beech and maple leaves fluttered down like parchment.
From there, I connected to the boardwalk sections that traced Wetlands Trail. I paused at the observation deck that overlooks Walnut Creek — the water moving slow and clear, carrying leaves in lazy spirals toward unknown places. The frogs croaked somewhere out of sight, and a single woodpecker echoed its rhythm through the trunks.
Asbury Woods has over five miles of trails, and I walked nearly all of them. Unlike the wider and more formal trails of Presque Isle, Asbury’s paths dip and weave, narrow and root-covered in places. At one point, I found myself crossing a small footbridge into a pocket of hemlock so dense the light dimmed to cathedral tones. In that space, time slackened.
It’s worth mentioning that Asbury isn’t just forest. There are open meadows, restored prairie sections, and educational signage that manages to be informative without patronizing. I passed only a few other hikers — two older women identifying birds with binoculars, and a father-and-son duo turning over rocks near the creek.
There’s a grace in places that don’t try too hard to impress, and Asbury Woods wears its wildness without apology.
4. Bayfront Connector Trail: Urban Meets Nature
For a change of pace, I turned toward Erie’s Bayfront Connector Trail — a multi-use path that ties the city’s core with the lakefront. The route threads its way alongside roads, through parks, and under overpasses. It doesn’t have the isolation of Presque Isle or the immersion of Asbury Woods, but it does offer a unique juxtaposition: wildflowers growing through sidewalk cracks, the scent of exhaust mingling with spring blooms, geese waddling along under the watchful eye of a traffic light.
I began near Frontier Park and rode east toward the Erie Maritime Museum. The trail passed close to the bay, offering glimpses of sailboats bobbing in slips and fishermen leaning over railings with the patience of saints. At Dobbins Landing, I locked my bike and walked out along the pier, wind tousling my hair into a state of disarray that no hat could salvage.
There’s art woven into the trail — murals under bridges, sculptures dotting green spaces. It’s the kind of trail that encourages pauses, not for breath, but for observation. A blend of grit and grace runs through this part of Erie. I found myself stopping at a small café on French Street afterward, legs tired but mind buzzing with the contrast of steel and sky.
5. Wintergreen Gorge: Beneath the Canopy of Time
The day I hiked Wintergreen Gorge, the clouds hung low and gray, brushing against the treetops like fingers dragging across silk. Located on the eastern edge of the city, this gorge cut by Fourmile Creek offers a trail unlike any I’d walked so far. It’s narrow and root-tangled, bordered by shale cliffs and moss that gleams underfoot.
Descending into the gorge felt like stepping backward through eras. The creek gurgled over smooth stones, and waterfalls trickled down limestone ledges in quiet rhythms. Some hikers move quickly through this trail, but I chose to linger. At one bend, I sat on a fallen log for nearly half an hour, watching minnows dart in shallow pools and listening to the hush of wind filtered through leaves.
The trail continues for several miles, at times climbing high above the water before swooping back down. There are places where the footing is tricky, slick with wet leaves or angled precariously over drops. I welcomed that challenge — the reminder that some beauty demands a price of attention and balance.
I passed a few local university students out on a trail run, their voices fading quickly into the gorge’s hush. Most of the time, I was alone, accompanied only by the layered scent of wet stone, decaying leaves, and distant pine.
6. McClelland Park: Biking the Ridge and Beyond
One of Erie’s lesser-known trail systems winds its way through McClelland Park, a forested space with miles of mountain biking singletrack. I rented a proper trail bike from a shop near State Street and spent the better part of a day exploring the twists, banks, and switchbacks that thread through the park.
The terrain here is rugged in places — not wild like a national forest, but technical enough to keep my focus sharp. Tight turns through dense pine give way to open ridgelines where the wind picks up and the world seems to fall away behind the handlebars. There are jumps and berms for those so inclined, but the real reward lies in the rhythm — the rise and fall, the climb and coast, the muscle memory kicking in like a song remembered.
Some of the trails drop down to flatter sections near Fourmile Creek, where the trees part just enough to let sunlight in, painting the trail in dappled light and shadow. I stopped by a trail map sign, checked my route, and took a break under a stand of old oaks. Their bark was rough like a promise.
There’s no shortage of moments in McClelland where it feels like the city has disappeared entirely. The hum of traffic falls away, replaced by the rustle of squirrels and the occasional whir of another cyclist slicing through the silence.
7. A Place Woven From Water and Trail
Each day in Erie unrolled a different kind of path — literal and figurative. From the expansive curves of Presque Isle’s coastal trails to the deeply wooded hush of Asbury and Wintergreen Gorge, to the urban rhythms of Bayfront and the tight turns of McClelland, there’s a layered richness here that doesn’t shout its virtues.
The weather wasn’t always perfect. One morning brought sideways rain, another a stiff wind that made pedaling feel like climbing a hill on a treadmill. But the imperfections only added to the story. Trails are meant to be experienced in the full spectrum of sky moods — clear or cloudy, cold or sunlit. The beauty of Erie lies not in polish but in presence. In the way the wind hums differently on a bridge than in a gorge. In how pine needles crunch under tire and boot. In how, sometimes, you can stand perfectly still and hear nothing but the rustle of leaves on the breath of the lake.