Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps there’s value in showing people that women contain multitudes—that the same hands can apply lipstick and build a fire.
“Fine,” I agree. “But on my terms. No manufactured drama. No staged reactions.”
“Absolutely.” Elliott’s enthusiasm borders on manic. “We film as events unfold. Pure documentary.” I doubt his commitment to authenticity will survive the first dull hour, but it’s a start.
After dinner, we gather around the small campfire for warmth. Elliott seizes the opportunity for an impromptu interview, positioning one of the cameramen to capture the firelight on my face.
“Lena,” he begins, slipping into interviewer mode. “Tell us about your grandmother and how she influenced you.”
I stare into the flames, memories surfacing. “My parents divorced when I was eight. Mom had to work double shifts, so I spent summers with Gram in the Appalachians. She and my grandfather built a cabin there before he passed. He was stillaround when I was little—taught me how to tie knots, build fires, basic survival stuff. After he died, Gram kept the place going on her own.”
“That must have been quite an adjustment for a city kid,” Elliott says.
I chuckle at the memory. “I hated it at first. No television, no shopping malls, no indoor plumbing. Mountains and silence and my grandmother’s expectations that I pull my weight.”
“What changed?”
“I did.” I raise my eyes from the flame to the camera lens. “Gram didn’t coddle me. She taught me what she knew. How to identify a few useful plants. How to read basic weather signs.
How to move through the forest without tripping over every root.”
“And yet you chose acting—about as far from the wilderness as one can get.”
“Did I?” I challenge him. “Or did I choose another form of survival? In Hollywood, you learn to read people instead of weather. You navigate social terrain as treacherous as any mountain. You figure out which masks protect you and which leave you exposed.” And I mastered those masks. But what did it cost me? What part of Magdalena got lost in the construction of Lena?
Elliott blinks, thrown off script. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t.” I feed another small branch into the fire. “But all survival requires the same fundamental skills—observation, adaptation, persistence. Whether you’re facing a blizzard or a bad review.”
The interview continues, different from anything I’ve done before. I speak plainly about the contradictions I’ve lived with—the mountain-taught child inside the polished actress.About the freedom I feel out here, away from expectations and appearances.
Later, as the others sleep, I sit alone outside my tent, Finn’s compass open in my palm. The needle points north, unwavering despite the mountains around us. I think of Finn and Dave, making their way down to safety, and hope they’ve reached the helicopter clearing without incident. Two days until we reunite. Two days to lead this group and prove—to Elliott, to the audience, to myself—that I am more than anyone has allowed me to be.
Morning arrives with a crisp clarity that makes the mountains seem close enough to touch. I wake before the others, building a small cooking fire and setting water to boil. As steam rises from the pot, I notice movement at the edge of the basin—a flash of russet fur disappearing into the tree line. Fox, perhaps. Or marmot. My lips curve, thinking how Gram would have known what animal it was from a brief sighting.
One by one, the others emerge from their tents. Carlos starts checking his equipment, while the cameramen examine the magnificent landscape for establishing shots. Elliott emerges last, looking refreshed until he tries to stand upright. “Ow,” he gasps, clutching his lower back. “What did I sleep on, a rock?”
I bite back a chuckle. “Probably. Did you check your tent site before setting up?”
“I thought that’s what the sleeping pad was for,” he groans, attempting to stretch.
“Try rubbing the sore spot,” I suggest. “Finn showed me that heat helps with muscle pain. If there’s a smooth rock around here, we could heat it in the fire, wrap it in a shirt, and use it as a hotcompress.”
Elliott regards me with suspicion. “You're not going to rub dirt in it or suggest some strange plant poultice?”
“I'm an actress, not a shaman,” I laugh. “My knowledge has limits. But I do know basic first aid.”
He attempts another stretch. “I'll try your rock idea if it gets worse. For now, I'll complain loudly and make everyone uncomfortable.”
“That's the Hollywood way,” I agree, which earns a grudging upturn of his lips.
After a breakfast of instant oatmeal and coffee, we pack up camp. Elliott, emboldened by his slightly improved back and yesterday's successful navigation, approaches me with a different proposition.
“I want to point out a few spots along the route to the high basin,” he says, scanning the trail ahead. “The terrain changes should make for compelling footage, especially as we gain elevation.”
“We need to make progress,” I remind him. “That's still the goal, right?”
“Of course, but we have time. According to Finn's timeline, we're ahead of schedule since we reached the basin yesterday.” He's not wrong. The maps show a relatively straightforward route from here to the high basin and then to Painted Peaks—a gentle ascent up the valley, then a steeper climb to the alpine meadows.
