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was all worth it for the scenery that greeted us, starting from the two-hour trip on a chartered van from Denver to Vail. We couldn’t drink in enough of the soaring mountains, some forest green, some white, many streaked with skiing trails. Simply strolling the hotel premises, stepping stones in the creek that ran past one side, inhaling the clear mountain air — it was surreal.

We rented bikes within walking distance of our lodging. Biking itself was an exotic experience for us city slickers, but the path we rode — nestled between towering green mountains and dotted with burbling streams — was “I can’t breathe” level beautiful. We parked several times along the way to explore the area, tiptoeing down near the streams and entering clearings to access the mountain views. My limbs — though sore from inexperience — gained new energy, unlike anything you feel walking the streets of Brooklyn.

Of course, there’s no vacation without food. Did I mention that we’d written our menu in advance? Down to the spreads in every sandwich?

Those were the pre-Betty Crocker days, so we’d packed a single electric burner, over which we carefully reheated our dinner every night. (It’s been 13 years, but I vividly remember what we ate that night: vegetable soup with kneidlach; schnitzel, rice with mushrooms, green beans. We also cracked open a can of Israeli pickles. Simple, homemade food on plastic plates on a small table in a resort 1,874 miles from home, as we sat snuggled in the most magnificent mountainscape.

Mornings dawn differently in Vail than they do in Brooklyn. Imagine waking to a sun that spills over Alp-like mountain terrain. We spent hours of that trip staring at the beauty of Hashem’s world, forgetting all about jobs and courses and the hustle of the life we’d left behind.

But on our first morning, when my husband joined the Shacharis minyan of a tour group that was staying at the same resort, our awe was somewhat marred by an unexpected obstacle: The tour’s host was not happy to see my husband, and he made his disapproval very clear.

“Nice,” he said coldly when he passed us later in the hallway. “You join our tour without bothering to sign up. So convenient.”

We were stunned. Had we done anything wrong? We’d chosen this lodging precisely because we knew there’d be a minyan on the premises, but after this encounter, my husband arranged transportation — I can’t remember how — to daven Minchah and Maariv at the Chabad 15 minutes away. If he wasn’t welcome at the tour’s minyan, he would make every effort to stay away.

Still, we tried not to allow the hostile vibes to ruin our day’s trip: ATVing. We’d signed up with a local tour company for this trip, and their van picked us up and chauffeured and directed us, along with a group of people, to an ATVing trail.

As we were signing waivers, we noticed the ATV staff engaged in somber, subdued conversation. Something about the expressions on their faces made me queasy, and sure enough, as soon as I handed in the form where I absolved the company from any liability, the story emerged: Earlier that morning, an ATV passenger had slammed his vehicle into a tree and been injured.

“He has special needs,” the green T-shirt-clad guide explained, in an effort to reassure us.

So a few hours later, when I found myself in a roaring vehicle on a 90-degree bend, sandwiched between the straight wall of a mountain and the straight wall of a cliff, about two inches from each, all I could think, very foggily, was, waiver.

By the time we made it to the summit, we were all covered in dust and celebrating the miracle of our survival. (Okay, maybe not all. Some of us definitely were.) We removed our protection goggles, taking took in the arresting beauty of the mountaintop, and walked through patches of snow — in August! — as the sun streamed over us.

The next day, going along with the tour company’s itinerary, we went white water rafting. In Aspen, a shuttle ride from Vail, we took a mountain hike meant for trained and seasoned hikers — which we weren’t — but youth and daring trumped sensibility. Our first mistake was coming ill-equipped — too much food, too little water. Also, we hadn’t anticipated the difficulty of the trail, and at one point we sat on some large rocks in a shady spot and nearly gave up. My husband took out a pocket Gemara, learning l’illui nishmas his rosh yeshivah; perhaps it was the spiritual injection that gave us the strength to continue. It took us at least an hour to regain our senses once we reached the top.

ON

the last night of our stay, we bumped into the tour director in the hallway again and stopped to talk. This time, we listened to his full story: how people always do this to him — show up and enjoy his program, the separate swimming hours, the entertainment he brings in, even some of the food if they know it’s “extra.” He also said he often has to turn paying guests down for lack of hotel space, when the rooms are being occupied by Yidden who choose this hotel to avail themselves of the tour’s conveniences.

Truly upsetting, and not right.

Then he listened to us.

“Did you lose any bookings because of our stay?”

He hadn’t, as this was mainly an issue over weekends, and we weren’t staying for Shabbos.

“Your price for a couple for one day is the same amount we spend on food for an entire month,” we said, explaining that we were never prospective tour guests.

We were a kollel couple, and we’d been saving up all year for this trip. Every moment of our stay was budgeted, and we weren’t there for the same experience that his guests were. Additionally, we hadn’t benefited from his tour’s program or food — not even a cup of water. Our transportation limitations were the only reason we’d been relying on his minyan.

He understood. In fact, 15 minutes later, the phone in our hotel room rang.

“We really want you to join us for dinner,” the tour director said.

We declined (we’d packed so much food!), but it was nice to know nobody bore any grudges. Instead, this experience became an exercise of perspective-taking, an everlasting souvenir for us to take home.

Because we wanted to maximize our last day, we’d booked a late-night flight back, but we had to check out of the hotel by 10:30 a.m. My husband met a guy at the Chabad minyan who was also traveling home at midnight, and he and his wife agreed to have us in their car for the day — quite an altruistic offer.

The only issue was that our hosts had one destination on their itinerary for the day: a kosher pizza store in Denver, a two-hour drive from our hotel. We couldn’t understand; why would anyone be that excited about pizza, which you can buy on every block back home, when there were so many of Hashem’s natural wonders to drink in? Luckily, our hosts made a detour for a very nice steam engine train ride through the mountains, so we got to see more of Vail’s beauty before going out for pizza.

They then took us to Denver’s supermarket, the East Side Kosher Deli — where we discovered that every last food item we’d shopped for and prepared and frozen and carefully packed was available on their shelves. There was also a great takeout.

So much for our frozen schnitzels.

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he next summer, my husband and I became parents; we were glad we’d done our Vail trip when we still considered ourselves newlyweds. (I don’t think I’ve been on a bike since then.)

These days, the world may still be my oyster, but it’s an oyster of a different breed. Our summer trips over the past decade have been kid-friendly, and we now travel in our own car, so the transportation headache is never greater than the price of gas.

But this year, with child care arrangements figured out, my husband and I have the rare opportunity to honeymoon again. We sat down to discuss where to go, considering each of the 50 states, until we realized that there’s only one place we want to visit: Vail, Colorado, here we come.

Esther Adler is a writer in Brooklyn, New York.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1026)