The trail steepens, winding through spruce and fir. Despite my foot pain, I notice details I missed yesterday—wildflowers between rocks, different bark textures, how certain plants grow together.
“What’s that one?” I say at a switchback, pointing to a cluster of small white flowers.
Finn looks where I’m looking. “Yarrow. Good medicinal plant. Helps with bleeding, inflammation.”
“Achillea millefolium,” I say, the Latin name emerging unbidden, as familiar as my own.Where did that come from?At his sharp expression, I add, “You mentioned it yesterday, remember?” He hadn’t, and we both know it. But he lets it pass, nodding and continuing up the trail.
By lunchtime, we’ve reached a high meadow covered with wildflowers. The view extends for miles—snow-capped peaks in the distance, the valley we’ve come from a green ribbon below. The crew films, capturing my communion with nature’s majesty. I play my part, marveling with appropriate expressions.
When the cameras turn away, I sit on a sun-warmed rock, removing my boots to check the blisters. The moleskin holds, and Finn’s socks have helped, but new hot spots form on my other foot.
Finn appears beside me, offering jerky and trail mix. “Change both socks,” he says. “And drink more water. You’re dehydrated.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your lips are dry. Your pace is slowing. The way you hold your head.”
“You observe me that closely?” I hadn’t meant the question to sound personal.
His eyes meet mine, unwavering, giving nothing away. “Observing everyone is my job. Getting you all back alive is the goal.”
“Alive seems like a low bar.” I try to joke away the tension.
“In the wilderness, alive is the only bar that matters.” He hands me a tube. “Lip balm. Has sunscreen in it.” Our fingers touch as I take it, a brief warmth in the cool mountain air.
“Thanks.”
He nods, then moves to check on the others. I watch him go, uncertain why I am so off-balance around him. He is unlike the men I know—no artifice, no agenda beyond keeping us safe and completing the job.
I apply the balm, change my socks, and eat despite my lack of hunger. Food is fuel out here, Finn has explained. The body needs energy regardless of appetite.
The afternoon brings steeper climbs and narrower trails. My blisters throb with each step, but I find a rhythm that reduces the pain—placing my weight carefully, adjusting my stride to suit the terrain. To distract myself, I catalog the plants we pass, remembering their names in English and Latin, sometimes in Spanish, when my grandmother’s voice echoes in my memory. Fireweed.Epilobium angustifolium. Wild roses.Rosa acicularis. Lupine.Lupinus arcticus. Names my grandmother taught me before she died—before Momma said we had to leave that life, before I learned to erase that girl.
The mountain doesn’t care who I pretend to be. Each step is real, each breath earned.
When we reach that night’s campsite—another flat area near a stream, this one against a dramatic rock face—I am tired beyond anything I’ve known. Bone-deep exhaustion thatsomehow seems earned. We’ve covered twelve miles of difficult terrain, climbed nearly two thousand feet, and survived. A wilderness success.
Setting up my tent goes better than yesterday. I only need Finn’s help once, when a stubborn stake refuses to drive into the rocky ground. The cameras capture my improvement, Elliott’s direction turning a simple task into a narrative of growth. “Perfect,” he says after I secure the rain fly. “Now appear as if you’re appreciating your accomplishment.”
I do as instructed, though a flicker of pride surfaces. Yesterday I was helpless, today I am merely incompetent. Progress.
After camp is established, Finn gathers everyone for a refresher on wilderness cooking. “We’ll be using the portable stoves again today,” he says, demonstrating how to connect the fuel canisters. “Fire risk is too high for open flames.” He shows us how to prepare a one-pot meal—dehydrated vegetables, instant rice, and preserved meat that I choose not to identify too closely. Despite its appearance, the result tastes good, or hunger enhances the flavor.
As we eat, gathered on rocks and logs, the crew shares stories of other remote shoots—a sandstorm that destroyed their equipment in Morocco, the flash flood that stranded them in Costa Rica, the angry moose that chased their sound guy in Canada. I stay quiet, listening. My world of controlled sets and catered lunches seems extravagant by comparison. These people routinely face difficult situations to capture images that others will view from comfortable sofas. There is authenticity in that which I’ve pretended to embody on screen.
“What about you, Finn?” one of the crew says. “What’s the worst situation you’ve guided people through?”
Finn pauses, his face lit by our camp lanterns. “Winter of ‘18.Group of four got caught in an early blizzard. We were three days from the nearest outpost when it hit.”
We lean in, captivated. “Temperature dropped to negative twenty. Wind gusts of sixty miles per hour. Visibility perhaps ten feet. Had to dig snow caves and wait it out.”
“How long were you stuck?” Elliott asks.
“Four days.” Finn takes a sip of tea. “Used body heat to keep warm. Melted snow for water. Rationed the remaining food. When the storm broke, we had to navigate through three feet of fresh powder. Took us nearly a week to reach safety.”
“Were you scared?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
His eyes meet mine across the circle. “Not scared. Respectful. Nature isn’t malicious, only indifferent. Fear clouds judgment. Respect keeps you alert.” It wasn’t a platitude. For him, it was clearly a fundamental truth, something he lived by. Respect, not fear. I consider this as the conversation continues around me.
