“No. You get stronger.”
The trail side blueberries distract her from the discomfort, at least for a while. At our first water break, I show her which plants are safe to eat. “These are edible,” I say, plucking a handful of berries. “Small but sweet.”
She examines the bushes, head tilted. “Blueberries, obviously.Vaccinium uliginosum.” The Latin name surprises me. She catches my expression and quickly adds, “I think that’s what they’re called. I read a nature book once.”
“You read a book on arctic berry plants?”
She avoids eye contact as she pops a berry into her mouth. “I like to be prepared.”
Something isn’t adding up. Most people who can identify plants by their scientific names don’t also pack four different face creams for a camping trip.
By mile four, her pack adjustments can’t hide her discomfort. The cheerful hiker who appears for the cameras vanishes the moment filming stops, replaced by a woman who looks like she is questioning every decision that led her to this moment.
“How much farther?” she asks during our second break.
“To lunch? Another mile. To camp? Four beyond that.”
She groans, leaning back against a boulder. “I can’t believe this is still thefirstday. I need food. Real food. Not trail mix.”
“There’s jerky in your side pocket.”
“I need more than dried meat.”
I consider our location, checking the sun’s position. “There’s a stream up ahead. Good lunch spot. Might even catch some trout if you’re interested in learning.”
Her nose scrunches slightly. “I don’t eat fish.” Right. Another princess-ism.
“Right. Forgot about that. Then it’s jerky for you.”
“Great,” she mutters. “More dried meat.”
The stream spot is one of my favorites—a small clearing where the water pools into a deep, clear basin before continuing down the mountain. Perfect for refilling water bottles and cooling sore feet. We drop packs, and the relief on Lena’s face is almost comical.
“Thirty minutes,” I tell the group. “Rest, eat, drink. Then we push on to camp.”
While the crew sprawls in patches of shade, I pull out my collapsible fishing rod. “Whether or not you eat it, fishing is a useful skill to learn,” I say to Lena. “Survival basics.”
She observes as I assemble the rod, her interest seeming sincere despite her aversion to fish. “You’re going to catch something? Here?”
“These pools are full of small trout. Perfect for teaching.”
Elliott perks up. “We should film this. Lena’s first fishing lesson.”
The cameras appear, and with them, Lena’s performance. She listens intently as I explain casting basics, asking perfectly timed questions, her mistakes clumsy enough to be charming for the lens. The cameras capture it all—her surprise when she feels a nibble, her triumphant beam when we land a small trout.
“I did it!” Her exclamation is clearly for the cameras, the six-inch fish dangling from her line.
“Perfect eating size,” I say, showing her how to remove the hook. “Want to try cleaning it? Even if you don’t eat it, the crew might appreciate fresh protein.”
The cameras keep rolling as her expression falters slightly. “Clean it? As in ... gut it?” There’s the reaction I expected.
“Prepare it for cooking.”
Her attempt is messy but determined. Her face pales considerably by the time she finishes, but the job is done.
“Not bad,” I say, impressed by her determination. “Natural talent.”
She arches a brow. “I’m a quick study.”
