The cold rain of a March night in Oregon beat down on our band of about 20 brave—some would say crazy—spiritual adventurers from the Pacific Northwest as we built a bonfire on the shores of the Breitenbush River in the foothills of the Cascade Range. I felt myself shaking, but it was not from the dank chill that permeated my boots and seeped through every fiber I was wearing. I was terrified.

As the bonfire was lit and the flames roared high and hot, the reality of what I had gotten myself into was exciting all the nerve pathways in my primal fear network. I was about to become a fire walker. In a couple of hours, after the flames had turned the bonfire into a heap of glowing coals, we would spread those coals into a pathway, take off our shoes and socks, and go for a 12-foot (4-meter), 1200°F (650°C) walk.

Weeks earlier, when I decided to join this fire walk, it had seemed like a great idea. I was looking for a way to open an article I was writing on Cascadia, a stretch of land up to 200 miles (322 kilometers) wide that runs along the Pacific Coast from about 200 miles (322 kilometers) north of San Francisco through most of Vancouver Island.

Geologists have named this terrain after the Cascade Range, a chain of volcanoes, including Mount St. Helens and Mount Rainier, that form the backbone of the region. Scientists have realized in the past few years that this beautiful land, famous for its redwoods, salmon, and spotted owls, is far more vulnerable to horrific earthquakes than anyone had suspected.

They had already learned that the volcanoes were still very much alive. The eruption of Mount St. Helens in May 1980 had alerted them that any volcano in the region could erupt on short notice. They have since been struggling to understand the forces that keep the geophysical fires burning beneath Cascadia.

So when I heard about fire walking, which is becoming increasingly popular in the United States, a walk across hot coals seemed like a perfect metaphor for what everyone in Cascadia, which includes the cities of Portland,Oregon, Seattle, Washington, and Vancouver,Canada, is doing.

I contacted instructors Ariel Frager and Danny Pharr, who were about to conduct a fire walk at the Breitenbush Hot Springs Retreat and Conference Center. Could I report on the event? Sure, but...I would have to participate in the two-day workshop myself. Otherwise, Photographer Jim Richardson and I, might seem intrusive to the rest of the group. Me? Walk on fire? No, no, Ariel assured me. No one has to walk on the coals. In fact, she said, if something inside is telling you not to walk, then the bravest thing a prospective fire walker can do is to heed that voice.

So I flew to Portland and drove into the mountains. Breitenbush is a rustic resort featuring clusters of wood cabins nestled in an old-growth forest. Especially popular on weekends, the resort is famed for its natural hot springs, in which visitors relax, usually au naturel. Only vegetarian food is served by the commune that runs the center, and a wide range of New Age-style workshops are offered.

After settling into my cabin, I met the other members of my group, who had gathered in a small circular meeting house. They were a mixed lot, who had a variety of reasons for wanting to step on hot coals. Several had done it before and found it exhilarating and life-altering. Others were skeptical.

“I’m a firefighter,” said Robert Delikat from a suburb of Portland. “I want to learn what the trick is.”

“It’s impossible,” said Robin Ingalls from Washington State. “I’m a skeptical person. I had to see for myself.”

“It’s scary,” said his partner, Laura Mixon, “but a lot of scary things are going on in my life right now.”

“I want to get rid of a wart on my foot,” said an impish Breitenbush resident named Jeffery.

After introductions, we sat on the floor while Ariel , Danny, and their appropriately named co-leader, Heather Ash, prepared us for what lay ahead.

“The fire is a teacher,” explained Heather. “It’s an ancient practice in many cultures. It teaches you to overcome your fears and do what you thought was impossible. Historically, this opportunity was given only to medicine men, priests, and shamans.”

As she spoke, I grew more nervous. I had come here committed to just observing with journalistic dispassion. But she was telling us that to prepare for the experience we would have to examine some of our most deep-seated fears, and to reflect on how they interfered with our lives. Moreover, we were supposed to share these thoughts—to expose our vulnerable psychological underbellies—to the group.

Over the next day the group began to bond as we shared intimate details of our lives. We also chanted, and that communal vocalization seemed to tie us together. By the time we began building the bonfire, we were sharing an energy that seemed almost religious.

After the flames burned down, we raked the coals into the path. The heat was searing. I didn’t want to stand close to the path, let alone walk on it. Ariel began giving final instructions: “Walk with purpose. Be mindful of the others ahead of you on the coals. Breathe deeply. And always respect the fire. Otherwise, you’re going to get burned.”

I tried breathing deeply, but the terror remained. Yet I knew I could not turn back. I had become part of this group. If they could walk, I decided, so could I. The decision was made easier after the first person, a lumberjack of a man named Ray, strode across the flames without screaming. In fact, he looked radiant.