Trigger warning: if you’re thinking about traveling with small kids, you probably shouldn’t read this. Views expressed are the editor’s only, and do not reflect the experience of far more organized travelers. 

There was a time in life when we had only two children, and they were old enough, portable enough, and adventurous enough to travel. For a brief season of life, we took a leaf peeping trip every fall: first to Vermont in 2016, then North Carolina in 2017, and Colorado in 2018, when I was pregnant with our third child. On this particular trip in 2018, we stayed at the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park, Colorado. The nearly 900-acre property has a gorgeous lodge, cabins, and more than 50 activities on property, including an old-school roller rink, a cozy library with a roaring fireplace, hiking trails through the golden Aspen trees of the Rocky Mountains in October, playgrounds and an arts and crafts hut. I should also note that the weather took a turn on this trip, and it snowed. Naturally, pregnant as I was, we hopped in our rental car to drive down to the lodge for meals, and across property for various activities. This detail about getting around the property is important later, so hang on to that. 

We took a break from traveling after our third and fourth boys were born in 2019 and 2022, but I was ready to get back to it in 2023. That was my first mistake. 

Since my mother-in-law Wanda would be joining us this time, we decided to return to Estes Park. We already knew what to expect, and there were plenty of activities for our kids, ranging in age from 1 to 14. Plus, I was eager to get some hiking in that I wasn’t able to achieve the last go-round. 

Things went awry from the start. First, our flight was delayed out of Baton Rouge for several hours. We probably spent half of our food budget on five-dollar string cheeses in that window of time. Once we boarded the plane, the small dose of dramamine had an adverse effect on the boys, and they turned positively feral. Finally deplaning around 10 p.m. in Denver, my dear, sweet mother-in-law realized she’d left her bag in the overhead compartment. It took another 45 minutes of wait time before the plane was cleared and they’d allow us back on to fetch it. 

Carry-ons in hand, we began to make our way to the baggage claim, taking turns holding the Hiccapop, an unwieldy, heavy, expensive, inflatable toddler bed I thought was necessary for travel. But the massive airport was under construction, and we found ourselves bleary-eyed and exhausted in a makeshift hallway of black temporary walls, hoping baggage claim was at the end of the literal tunnel. We arrived to find out that since it took so long for us to claim our bags–what with the carry-on debacle and all–they’d stored our luggage in an office, and we had to wait around for someone to get the key. 

Our next unpleasant discovery was that the car rental place associated with the airport was 8 miles away, and you had to take a taxi to get there. By now it was midnight, the toddlers were feral, and I was hanging on by a thread. We had to beg the last remaining taxi man to let all seven of us pile into his compact SUV. He was displeased. 

The details of what happened next are blurry. I remember staring out of the dark window at all of the construction as the taxi driver complained about not being able to see out of his back window, when my mother-in-law began to cry. “I…” she sniffled… “don’t have my bags!” 

Somehow in all of the confusion, we didn’t claim her luggage from its holding cell. The driver allowed me three minutes to dash back in and try to receive it, but I ran through the glass doors into the makeshift construction tunnels and had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to find my way out. We resolved to get it in the morning; after all, we had a hotel nearby booked, since it was over an hour to get to the YMCA of the Rockies. 

Finally arriving at the deserted car rental place at 1 a.m., children wide awake but delirious, we were met with the next disaster: we don’t have credit cards. 

Despite having reserved the rental car (presumably with a debit card?), and presenting debit cards to the attendant, we were refused a rental car. “It’s fine,” I reasoned after what felt like an eternity of begging him to make an exception. “Everything is on property anyway. We’ll just Uber there in the morning.” Dun dun dunnnnn.

Michael and his mother returned early the next morning with her bag in tow, and we called an Uber. He, too, was displeased with 7 of us and our luggage blocking his rear window. And we’d soon find out that "60 miles away" means something very different in Colorado than it does in Louisiana. As the eternal ride approached its third hour, he became visibly angry, hissing “How much are you paying Uber for this ride?” muttering under his breath about how he was getting stiffed by the company. When we finally crossed onto YMCA of the Rockies property, he pulled into the first available parking lot. As we piled out, he hurled our luggage onto the pavement with the rage of a jilted lover. He climbed back into the driver's seat without a word and sped away as my suitcase gathered speed rolling down the hill after him.

The next thing we’d discover is that our cabin was wayyyy up the mountain. You’d be correct in assuming you’d need a car to drive there. You’d be incorrect if you assume the YMCA of the Rockies offered any sort of trolley service. “You didn’t bring a car? How…did you get here?” We had to beg a maintenance man to throw our things in the back of his pickup truck and make several trips up and down the mountain to transport us all. 

We walked into our precious little cabin and I immediately began googling car rental places nearby. Here’s where it really gets interesting: there are actually no rental car companies in Estes Park. None. Zero. There is literally no way to get a car. 

By now, it’s just about dinnertime and everyone is starving. I walk out onto the porch and can make out the speck of the dining hall far off into the distance. I’ll just DoorDash groceries, right? WRONG. There are ALSO no food delivery services. We ate the last remaining emergency travel snacks from the diaper bag–cold oatmeal–and stared at each other in silence.

By the next day, Wanda had called an old friend who lived nearby…well, not exactly, but within the state…and he graciously agreed to come visit and take her to the grocery store for us. In the meantime, I'd exhausted every transportation option except one: renting e-bikes from a company in town who agreed to deliver them, along with a trailer attachment for the boys. (Side note, for a property that “has it all,” regular bicycles are not on the list of amenities at YMCA of the Rockies.) 

I will say flying downhill at 28 miles per hour was an absolute thrill. My mother-in-law would wholeheartedly disagree. We essentially put a 70 year old woman with questionable balance on a motorcycle. Oh, did I mention that this is the time of year the elk come out of the mountains to mate on the property? I will never forget the image of my little Wanda, dressed in all purple with a little purple helmet, flying down the mountain screaming expletives, headed straight for a herd of elk blocking the road. Oh dear God, I thought as I watched in horror. Grandma will literally get run over by a reindeer. 

Somehow, she escaped unscathed. The last of our trauma was waking up the day we were scheduled to fly home and realizing we had no possible way to get to the airport. We had already spent over $1000 to rent the e-bikes. I drove mine to the lodge and begged the manager to help us. He said he knew a guy. An hour later, and for just $250 per person, a white kidnapper-style van pulled up. He wasn’t an Uber driver. He wasn’t a shuttle service. He wasn’t affiliated with the YMCA in any capacity. He was just some guy with a van and a plan. But getting out of there was the best $1750 we spent the whole trip. 

The moral of the story is just stay home. But if you insist on traveling, always bring a credit card.