(FORTUNE Magazine) – Though you'd be hard-pressed to find it on Travelocity, there's one vacation package that allows participants to journey back in time. Men's Week at the Golden Door is a high-priced sleep-away camp for men who can afford to go anywhere and do anything. It transports them back to childhood, a time when nurturing oneself was a top priority and decisions were made by a higher power.

The average Golden Door Man is an incredibly successful (worth millions, maybe billions), moderately conservative, midlife kind of guy searching for the universal remote that will put his life on pause. He loves his wife, his friends, his job, and his private jet--not necessarily in that order--but also the idea of awakening his responsibility-free, boys-will-be-boys inner child.

Money--more specifically, having barrels of it--allows these men to bridge whatever social gaps might exist between them, fostering an instant Our Gang dynamic of unconditional friendship. It's a narrow demographic niche, to be sure, but it's the subtle differences among them that make their coming together such a hoot. There are few places left in the world where a guy who raises horses for stud can talk shop ("Never own anything that eats while you sleep!") with a guy who obsessively collects Faberge eggs.

From the minute the motley crew arrives at the 377-acre Southern California retreat (think the Smurf village gone Tibetan), the guys are encouraged to shed their corporate drag and become "campers." Guests trade their Armani suits and Prada Sport gear for the Door's uniform: a gray T-shirt and navy shorts for day, a white sweatjacket with teal sweatpants for night. Name tags betray not only guests' names but their fitness levels and health concerns. (At this sort of camp, however, hypertension replaces an allergic reaction to peanut butter as the No. 1 health risk.) After asking a battery of questions--"What's your morning beverage?"--the staff schedules every move its guests make for the next seven days.

Everyone must abide by certain rules: No alcohol. No nicotine. No butter. No salt. No sex. No cologne. (One can safely assume there's no running by the pool either.) Even cell phone use is proscribed in public spaces. Because the signal is weak in many guest rooms, the savvy soon discover the great reception in the secluded, serenity-inducing labyrinth, which does double duty as the world's largest outdoor phone booth.

Flagpole is a discreet 5:15 wake-up call, followed by a crack-of-dawn mountain hike. Some guys mellow out, walking slowly and picking mushrooms; others race ahead, huffing and puffing through debates over which city has the superior Nobu. Hikes lead into breakfast (served with fake-chocolate coffee), where each guest receives his daily schedule, written on a cardboard fan that can be pinned to a T-shirt--an obvious effort to assuage the Palm addicts. Despite the absence of a girls' campus, on-the-hour activities tend to fall on either side of the butch/femme divide. On the one hand, there's Cardio Box, Strength Training, Power Cycle, Washboard Abs, Fencing, and the macho favorite, Archery. On the other, there's Aerobics, Yoga, Step It Up!, Feldenkrais body awareness, a fashion show, and the never-macho-unless-you-live-in-Nebraska line-dancing. Musically, however, the men keep it real, always opting for Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Buffett over Christina Aguilera.

Whatever the activity, breaking a sweat is key, not only to lose weight and tone up but also to justify the pampering. Massages, facials, manicures, herbal wraps, body scrubs, and eyebrow tinting go down easier with a good groin pull. (There's no accounting for the handful of men who actually have a stencil of the Golden Door logo painted on their big toenails.)

No matter how relaxed the guests allow themselves to get, they never stop working. (Or, rather, their money never stops working for them: One Texan joked that he wasn't going to exercise because "I'm too exhausted from making money in my sleep.") Most of the week's "networking" happens during the daily water-volleyball tournaments, but an undeniable air of business permeates even the strongest aromatherapy candles. The Door's one television is perpetually tuned to CNBC, and the daily market close attracts as many viewers as there are guests.

Nightlife consists of a 15-minute mocktail hour (virgin tea and overtly healthy hors d'oeuvres), dinner, and activities about as sexy as an episode of Live With Regis and Kathie Lee. A recent Men's Week was treated to a feng shui lesson, a low-fat cooking class, a movie with bone-dry popcorn, and a lecture from a San Diego Zoo volunteer titled "Panda-monium!" An unofficial 8:30 P.M. lights-out finds most guests in bed dream-ing of white-flour carbs and profit margins. Panty raids are reserved for the co-ed weeks when couples--even spouses--are encouraged to sleep in separate cabins.

By the end of the session, all is tears and schmaltz. "You guys are my family," says one emotional guest. "I don't know if I can wait until next year." The group picture is taken, e-mail addresses are exchanged, everyone's new and improved measurements are recorded, and it's time for the farewell banquet. The Door eases its campers back to reality with some wine and a smidgen of red meat; as the evening progresses and the awards are handed out, it becomes clear that the transition will not be seamless. After all, you don't often see grown men vying for the honor of best tan (Golden Glow), best water folly (Aqua Man), or best boxer (the Rocky).

ARIEL FOXMAN, an associate editor at In Style, won the Golden Door's Fred Astaire Award in 1999.

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