The biggest surprise was not what I’d left, but what I found

Location: Loon Mountain in New Hampshire

Years: 2001

The end of the 2001 school year marked the end of my career of 12 years as an eighth-grade rebbi. Four years before, in 1997, I became the rav of Ahavas Israel in Passaic, and the shul had grown exponentially. Although I attempted to juggle both responsibilities, it was clear that I could no longer be both the rav of a growing shul and a rebbi for talmidim who also needed to grow.

My obligations to the shul kept me entrenched in Passaic until after Tishah B’Av, at which point my wife, in her ingenuity, realized that I needed some time in “the Mountains” to refresh.

Born and raised in Brooklyn and having spent my entire life in New York City and Passaic (an honorary extension of Brooklyn), going north for me meant a 25-mile trek to Monsey.

Was there life beyond Monsey? Perhaps the Catskills in the summer, but didn’t America end at Monticello?

So when my wife informed me that we were heading to New Hampshire’s Loon Mountain, my first reaction was to inquire if we needed to renew our passports.

“Are there Jews in Loon Mountain?” I asked. “Will I have a minyan for Shabbos?”

“I’m sure, the White Mountains is a popular place to go during bein hazmanim,” my wife informed me. “When I called the resort, they told me they had only one room available the first week of August because of a last-minute cancellation.”

No doubt because of the impending exodus of frum Brooklynites to the cooler climate, I figured.