“It takes a month,” Bob said. “Any time I’ve gone away for a month, I’ve come home and been able to see things differently, reevaluate my life—maybe even do something else. Two weeks is not enough. You need a month for it to really change your life.” He and his family were just back from Tuscany, pretty much glowing, and had invited us for dinner. While they roasted red peppers and sprinkled anchovies on the broccoli, my husband and I sat rapt. We were impressionable young newlyweds. Transplanting a family to some gorgeous setting some day seemed like the pinnacle of living.

Today’s Americans work more hours than almost anyone else in the world, even the Japanese. Yet we rank lower in productivity than those in several nations, including Europeans, who work fewer hours and take more vacation. When the Families and Work Institute reported that one-third of Americans did not plan to use their full vacation, it also disclosed something else. Overworked employees are more likely to make mistakes, neglect their health, and suffer depression.

In the summer of 2006, we moved our family to Wyoming for 30 days. Why did we go? Partly because we could. Self-employed, my husband and I reasoned that, with computers and cell phones, we could work as effectively from Jackson Hole as from an office. Hitting a midlife birthday probably nudged us along. At 50, David had already lost one friend to cancer. It seemed like wisdom, not risk, for us to open the dreams folder and remove one from the heap. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” wrote Thoreau, “and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

For a lengthy trip to be financially viable, and mean something to our children, we had to sacrifice. We surprised them with the news Christmas morning and for the next six months marveled at how they chose to forego treats and toys—“for Wyoming,” a place they knew little about. We ate more lunches and dinners at home. The tuna cans piled up.

As with most worthwhile experiences, the longing was half of the pleasure.

Recently, scholars discovered that while living near Walden Pond, Thoreau had his mother do his laundry. I thought about this as we moved into a time-share called the Teton Club. “What’s it like?” asked friends back home. “The Wild, Wild West,” we said, adding sheepishly, “with daily maid service.” How many concierges did it take to change a lightbulb? Two to reassure us the electrician was coming. One to realize the cord was unplugged.

We were intent to live as locals, despite an indulgent base camp. We learned fast that anything touristy—whitewater rafting, horseback riding—cost a family of four around $200. So we swam in warm springs, while a buffalo looked on. The children pushed logs into a glacial lake and rafted, Huck Finn-style, the Tetons at their backs. We lined up to support the volunteer fire department’s chick-fry. And we never missed Sunday night “church,” twirling at the Stagecoach Bar to the banjo of Bill Briggs, the first man to ski the Grand Teton.

We saw elk and moose, eagles and double rainbows. We had snowball fights on mountaintops. How did the work go? Tougher than we’d thought. Because of a deadline, my husband arrived several days late. He left briefly, mid-trip, to check on projects. The kitchen table became his makeshift office—fun for all of us, but challenging for him when our five-year-old kept climbing on his head. When it worked well, as it often did, it was startlingly good. He’d call clients in the morning, toil ’til mid-afternoon, then zip on his Polartec and grin. We’d have six hours of daylight left for serious fun.

Family life fared even better. The trip cemented us in a way that could never happen at home. We were constantly together— a team, in new country. Our pristine environs were rare, but the mundane events seemed rarer: all four of us in the local library, scattering to different sections, then meeting up to compare finds.

On our final day, my husband summited the Grand Teton. We met old friends for dinner at Dornan’s, where the views and the mix of natives are unmatched. It was a night of celebration but also of loss. I walked down to the Snake River to say goodbye. Twenty summers before, I had fallen in love with this valley. Now, through grace, I had watched my children do the same. They had unearthed the secret of travel: great landscapes and people transform you forever.

“Look at the face!” My daughter ran up behind me and pointed at the Grand. Just a month before, the shape of the snow on certain rocks had created a Catwoman image, discernible only if you were awed enough to stare for minutes at a time. Now, her mask had melted, her pursed lips evaporated. The heat wave that had emboldened us to swim the icy river had taken its toll on her beauty. “Oh, Mama,” Helen said, crawling into my lap, “I never knew it could be so hot!” Oh, child, I thought, kissing her hair. I never knew it could be.

Photo Captions:
Picture 1: Jackson Hole’s Teton Barn, located inside Grand Teton National Park, is a beloved icon among the many visitors to the area.
Picture 2: Exultation in the Snake River.
Picture 3: A cowboy hat is vital to guard unexpected stitches from the sun.