While Lena is cleaning her catch, I land a few more trout. Between the fish and our packed provisions, we have plenty for everyone’s lunch. The trout cooks quickly over our small camp stove. Lena passes on the fish, sticking with her trail mix and jerky, but she seems pleased with her contribution to the meal.
With the break finished, we pack up and continue toward our campsite. The afternoon stretches into a grueling climb, the sun beating down as we switchback up a rocky slope. Lena falls silent, her focus narrowing to placing one foot in front of the other.
At a steep section, I drop back to walk beside her. “Use your trekking poles. They’ll take some weight off your knees.”
She adjusts her grip on the poles, mimicking my stance. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You’ve already done the hard part,” I say. “Only two more miles to go—we’ll be there before sunset.”
She groans softly but keeps walking.
I point to a distant ridge. “See that line of trees? That’s our campsite. Running water, level ground, good views.”
She squints toward the horizon. “It appears impossibly far.”
“It always does. Until you get there.”
Something in my tone draws her eyes to mine for the first time in hours. “Do you actually enjoy this? Or do you tolerate pain better than normal humans?”
The question is blunt enough to surprise a laugh out of me. “Both, perhaps.”
“Seriously. What’s the appeal of walking uphill for hours with heavy packs?”
I consider her question. “The views. You see things up here nobody else does. It’s quiet. You can actually see the stars clearly.”
“That’s very poetic for a mountain man.”
“Mountains inspire poetry in most people.”
She falls silent after that, apparently thinking about what I’ve said. We continue climbing, and I notice her using the trekking poles more effectively, finding a rhythm that eases her strain.
We reach the campsite as the sun begins its descent. The spot is perfect—a flat clearing surrounded by ancient pines, with a small stream running along one edge. From here, the view hits you hard. The valley we spent all day climbing from is a green smear far below.
“We’re here,” I announce, dropping my pack at a prime tent location. “Home for the night.”
Lena practically collapses onto a fallen log, her expression a mix of exhaustion and relief. “We made it.”
“You did well,” I say, meaning it. “Eight miles on your first day is impressive.”
She lifts her head, surprise crossing her face at the compliment. “I didn’t have much choice.”
“You always have a choice. You could have quit. Most people would have.”
She considers this, then shrugs. “Well, I’m an actress. I’m used to pushing through discomfort for the sake of a production.”
“This isn’t acting,” I say, unpacking my tent. “This is actual hardship.”
Elliott approaches before she can respond. “We should getcamp set-up shots while we still have good light. Lena, can you help Finn with the tents?”
Lena’s attempt to set up her tent with the cameras rolling involved missed stakes, collapsed poles, and increasingly creative cursing under her breath. I intervene when it becomes clear she might actually damage the equipment. “Like this,” I demonstrate, slotting poles together. “It’s a system. Each piece has a purpose.”
She tries to follow my lead, her frustration mounting with each failed attempt. For once, the cameras capture something real. When she finally gets the tent standing—with significant help from me—her expression of accomplishment is real.
“Not bad for your first time,” I say, securing the final stake.
“You did most of the work,” she admits.
“Next time, you will.”
