The river surged like an open fire hydrant. The water, cloudy with silt, pulled boulders loose and pounded them against each other, so loud I felt it in my teeth. On the other side of a footlog waited not just our campsite but our resupply caches: five-gallon paint buckets filled with food we’d sent ourselves ahead of time.

A ranger had warned us that, in heat like this, alpine glaciers melt more rapidly; by late afternoon, water levels rise. Sure enough, over the next 10 minutes, we watched as the river went from lapping the lip of the bridge to pitching over it, waves crashing across the surface our feet were supposed to tread.

In the Pacific Northwest, volcanoes adorn logos and license plates. They hover on the skylines of our cities. But to spend a week circling one on foot gives you witness to a power that’s as wondrous as it is wild. It’s a power that demands to be heeded, which is what we did at that roaring river on the northeastern flanks of Mount Rainier, backtracking and walking the shoulder of a road to our campsite along of the most strenuous, and sublime, hikes around.

First blazed in 1915, Mount Rainier’s Wonderland Trail travels 93 miles through mossy forests and wildflower-studded meadows, along high ridges and windswept scree slopes. Climbing in and out of river basins, its elevation profile is a relentless zigzag, its total gain the equivalent of two and a half trips to the summit. Engineers once wanted this route to be a roadway; instead, it’s become a bucket-list trek in the Pacific Northwest, with a beast of a permit system to match.

Last summer, after some big-time lottery luck, my friend Claire and I set out from the Longmire trailhead for an eight-day circuit. The first few days, temperatures broke 100, more than 20 degrees above normal. The heat made for an electric palette: cerulean skies, meadows so green they seemed to glow. It slowed us, but deliciously so, insisting we dip our hats in icy creeks and our bodies in turquoise glacial tarns. We skinny-dipped in Mystic Lake, tugging our clothes back on right as a trail worker came into view. We soaked our feet at lunchtime, stretched when we dropped our packs, and sought out cook spots with sunset views. Pleasure became an ethic, a form of care.

As we eased into the belly of the trip, we began each day by reporting how we’d slept and how our bodies were feeling—elemental concerns it felt (I’ll say it!) radical to prioritize. We delighted as characters entered the action: the shirtless, shoeless hiker singing to himself as he swung his paint bucket down the trail; the pair of women chilling their canned margaritas in the creek. At Mowich Lake, a campground described to us by a ranger as “the Wild West,” we squeezed onto a single tent site with two women who’d been hiking in the opposite direction, and over dinner swapped tales and trail intel.

Cars and planes distort time, collapse distance. Screens flash, notifications buzz. On foot, life felt continuous. My senses heightened and my gaze widened. Days expanded even as they grew simpler. A couple nights, before bed, Claire read in the tent while I lay on my back outside. Our trip fell during the Perseid meteor shower, and I watched crumbs of burning space dust streak bright through the sky.

Toward the end of day six, wildfire smoke began to roll in. The palette dulled, birds quieted, and our spirits dipped as the mountain became a hazy outline against a sickly sky. We’d wondered, of course, if this might happen. But then, look: A yearling black bear nosing through the ripe huckleberries, unconcerned with our presence. And there, a dozen hoary marmots—whistle-pigs, they’re sometimes called, thanks to their falsetto shrieks and barrel builds—scooting all around, sparring adorably before belly flopping onto warm rocks. And here, we two humans, on our feet, carrying ourselves back to where we’d begun.

Round the Mountain

Mount Rainier: Wonderland Trail

93 miles Circumnavigating the tallest Cascades peak requires some box ticking. This is a national park, so you’ll pay an entrance fee (new this year is timed entry), and camping overnight requires a wilderness permit. An early-access lottery opens annually in February, but the park holds one-third of permits for walk-ups. For your efforts, you’re rewarded: campgrounds have pit toilets and bear poles for food storage, and an easy system allows hikers to mail food caches for midhike resupplies.

Mount Hood: Timberline Trail 

41.5 miles Largely constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, the trail encircling Hood stays at or near tree line, meaning you’ll get up close and personal with the mountain’s flanks. Be prepared to ford rivers or bypass tree blowdowns. A self-issued permit is required, and some trailheads require a parking fee.

Mount St. Helens: Loowit Trail 

30 miles The otherworldly loop around the youngest Cascades volcano is a crash course in destruction and recovery. On the shortest but arguably most difficult of these three trails, expect limited water, little shade, and some loose and sketchy sections. Some trailheads require a parking fee.

Top photograph by Tom Schwabel/Tandemstock.com