The Philmont Scout Ranch in Cimarron, NM, is the Boy Scouts of America’s premier high-adventure base. Hiking more than 120 miles in 10 extremely eventful days carrying a 60-pound pack is the sort of challenge that I, as a Venture Scout, which is the coed section of Boy Scouts, wouldn’t want to miss.

Unfortunately, my crew lacked a female adult adviser. I e-mailed the scout ranch asking for a list of all Venture Crews going that summer. I ended up contacting a crew sponsored by a Catholic church about two hours away. The male adult leader told me I could attend the 20-mile training hike that weekend, and he would decide based on that.

On the drive down to the first hike, my father instructed me on different points of the Scout Law. I expected he would do that. What I did not expect were his final instructions. He told me not to tell anyone I was Jewish.

I quickly bonded with the crew. All were at least two years older, but that just meant they had more experience to share. We swapped stories and by the second training hike, it seemed like I had been in the crew all along. My religion did not seem to make any difference.

On the car ride up for the final training hike, I mentioned that I was going to Israel. In the car were two of the girls and the female adult leader. One girl asked if I was Jewish. Remembering my father’s instructions, I stumbled around for a bit and finally said yes. That is when my religion started separating me from the group. I soon realized members of the crew were no longer allowed to cross themselves when saying the prayer before meals because I was there. That night, the scout-assigned chaplain tried to run a service quoting “Our Lord Jesus Christ,” but was forced to stop by the adult advisers.

I shared a tent with a 19-year-old who asked me that night, “So what are you?” She went to New York University and I trusted her, so I easily responded, “I’m Jewish.”

“You don’t look Jewish,” she said.

“I definitely am.”

“Are you sure?”

“What are Jews supposed to look like anyway?”

“Dark hair…you know.”

For the rest of that training trip I could sense that things were different between us. It was only later that I found out that she was Lebanese. At the time, I was clueless.

Once in New Mexico, it only got worse. At base camp, we had religious services. A group of scouts announced that since they were being forced to go to religious services in general, they would go to the Jewish service with me. I followed a precession of my crew to the smallest chapel on camp, the Jewish chapel. There, one of them announced that she would move to the front to try to “sit near the Jew.” I laughed with the rest of them but just wondered: Is that what they thought of me? Was I now just a Jew?

From then on it seemed okay for the rest of the crew to make Jewish jokes. Every day I would hear my religion being made fun of. I was angry but just kept on hiking. I would smile and taunt back. The crew as a whole teased one another about decisions they had made at different points in their life. I was teased about being little, Jewish, and from New Jersey. Only two of those things I did not mind.

Two comments especially bothered me throughout the hike. One came from a 17-year-old who said, “Go back to New Jersey where you can drink some blood.” I shouldered my pack and kept on hiking.

The other I couldn’t even tell for sure was a joke. After someone remarked that “we can’t do the Catholic service — she is a Jew,” a guy said, “Don’t call her a Jew.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Jew is a derogatory word,” he explained. “You can say she is Jewish but you shouldn’t call her a Jew.”

“I am Jewish and I am a Jew,” I said, not sure if he was joking, ignorant, or trying to be considerate.

For the rest of that day’s hike I fumed. I kept on repeating to myself that I was different because I was Jewish. We always lived in mostly Jewish communities. Until this trip, it had not hit me that I lived in a bubble. I knew the statistics. I represented 0.2 percent of the world, 2 percent of the United States, 5.7 percent of New Jersey, perhaps 8 percent of MetroWest. I knew these facts and yet, other than acknowledging myself as part of a minority, did not see the difference between the religions.

That night, I finally figured it out. Jews were survivors. We get around life, with most of the world hating us for no other reason than our religion, because we work hard. The fact that we have survived more than 5,000 years in these conditions can propel us farther in life and make us work harder. Even after the Holocaust, the many inquisitions, and numerous other events, we have managed to survive and make a difference in the world. After realizing this, I was able to laugh with the people teasing me and use it as motivation for the trek.

I have yet to mention one major incident, an accident that was just waiting to happen. Having the one Jewish girl share a tent with the one girl of Lebanese descent — during a war between Israel and Lebanon — was not the smartest thing that the adult advisers could do. Instead of having a fistfight then and there, we had a silent agreement to avoid the topic during our hikes.

Still, I followed the war as much as I could with other Jewish friends before Philmont, and I was genuinely interested in her view, which I assumed opposed my own. On the way to the airport for our flight home from New Mexico, I asked her, “So what actually is your view on the whole war?”

Her response was mild. She did not think Israel should have attacked Lebanon over the capture of two soldiers. I told her that seemed fair and the topic was dropped.

Once in the airport, both of us literally dropped our bags and ran to the closest newsstand. Deprived of news in Philmont, we bought a New York Times and a Time magazine. We sat down and basically had a question-and-answer session while reading a range of articles. I was surprised to see that her views on most of the other issues were the same as mine. We talked about the war and various hot topics for an hour, keeping our opinions toned down for the other’s sake. At the end I saw that her opinion was just as informed and justified as mine. I understood why she had the views she had, and so, I went back to reading my book.

A scout from our crew then approached her, saying that our discussion seemed really intense and asking her to explain. She looked at me, smiled, and proceeded to tell him that the Israelis thought they were God’s chosen people, so they thought they could take over the rest of the Middle East and do whatever else they wanted. That is the toned-down version. She went on for a good two minutes like this.

The smile wiped off my face, I just stared at her. I was shocked. Yes, my parents had told me people thought this way but I had never heard such views voiced, especially by a person I had considered educated. She looked back at me quizzically and I said in a low voice, “That is so ignorant.” I went back to reading my book, thoroughly irritated.

A minute later she was sitting next to me. Glancing at her I said, “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Emmy, you know I didn’t mean it; you know I was being sarcastic; Emmy, are you angry with me?” she asked. “You are angry with me! Emmy. I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

I just stood up and went to the bathroom to cool off.

In retrospect, I might have overreacted. And yet I have read enough books about the Holocaust to know that the Nazis were educated people and that did not stop them from holding anti-Semitic beliefs. But I guess I thought that was a thing of the past.

I sat next to her father on the plane ride back. I wasn’t sure whether to reach out to the girl or just say goodbye. I wasn’t sure how much it mattered to her, but for me it was one experience that I will never forget.

Most people will remember Philmont Scout Ranch for the hard, 14-mile days, the seemingly nonstop rain, or the friendships that were formed. I will remember Philmont like this — but mostly I will remember it as the mental challenge, as the time I realized what it means to be part of that 2 percent.