Elliott looks at him, then at me, then back at the cameraman. A wide expression spreads across his face. “You filmed Grizzletoe? The legendary bear? With Lena facing him down like a woodland goddess?”
The cameraman nods. “Every second.”
“Even the part where Elliott almost wet himself?” Carlos adds with a chuckle.
“I did not!” Elliott protests, though his face suggests otherwise.
“Your voice went up about three octaves,” I point out. “You sounded like you were auditioning for a boys’ choir.”
“Fine, I was terrified,” Elliott admits. “Anyone would be. That thing was enormous.”
“And magnificent,” I add, the adrenaline dissipating. “My grandmother saw a grizzly once. Said it was like witnessing the mountain come to life.”
Elliott looks as if he might faint from joy. “Do you have any idea what this footage is worth? Wildlife channels will pay a fortune for licensing. This is—” he seems at a loss for words “—this is beyond perfect.”
“The best part is how Lena took charge,” Carlos says. “Natural leadership in a crisis. That’s your story right there.”
“It is,” Elliott agrees, regarding me with new respect. “You knew what to do.”
The truth is, I wasn’t calm. I was terrified. But fear and action can coexist—another lesson from my grandmother. “Courage isn’t about not being scared,” she’d say. “It’s about doing what needs doing despite the fear.”
“We need to take a detour,” I say instead of explaining. “Give Grizzletoe a wide berth. There should be a parallel route up the western slope.”
Elliott doesn’t argue. His newfound respect is evident in how quickly he defers to my judgment. “Lead the way.”
We climb the western slope, finding a game trail that runs parallel to the main valley. The going is harder, but the path takes us past the bear’s location. By late afternoon, we’ve rejoined the main route, continuing toward Painted Peaks.
As we make camp that evening, I sense a shift in the group dynamic. The others turn to me not only for guidance but with respect. Even Elliott, plotting the narrative possibilities of our bear encounter, treats me as a collaborator rather than talent to be managed.
“Something occurs to me,” Elliott says as we sit around our campfire. “You could have told us about your grandmother from the beginning. You could have avoided playing the helpless city girl. Why didn't you?”
The question deserves honesty. “Because everyone is more comfortable with me in that role. The glamorous actress who needs rescuing. It's what you expected—what you wanted for your show.”
“But it's not who you are,” Carlos observes.
“It's part of who I am,” I correct him. “I do love beautiful clothes and comfortable hotels. I enjoy filmmaking and the escape it provides to audiences. But it's not all of me.”
Elliott stares into the fire, his jaw working. “I suppose I got what I thought I wanted.” His voice carries disappointment—not in me, but in himself. “The easy story. The predictable narrative.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I'm wondering what else I've missed by not looking deeper.” He meets my eyes across the flames. “In this project. In others.”
As night settles around us, I take out Finn's compass again. The needle points north, unwavering in its purpose. I run my thumb over the worn brass case, tracing the subtle impressions left by countless hands before mine. Finn's hands. His mother's.
For the first time in years, I am myself—not the constructed persona I present to the world, but the woman shaped by summers in the mountains and a life in the spotlight. Both aspects real. Both valuable. The true journey hasn’t been across this wilderness, but back to me. The destination worth the climb.
Chapter Seventeen
FINN
First light hitsthe windows at the lodge as I finish packing supplies. The helicopter evacuation yesterday went smoothly—Dave was delivered straight to Craig Medical Center, an IV already pumping antibiotics into him. By the time we got him to the valley, he was past the point of May being able to help, so they took him directly to the hospital. I hiked back to Port Promise.
Getting back to the lodge and resupplying took longer than expected. Now I’m behind schedule.
The lodge is unusually alive for this early hour. I spot boots by the door that aren’t mine—worn hiking boots I recognize.
“Didn’t expect to find you back so soon.” Nash stands in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand. He’s supposed to be deep in the mountains on a week-long guided hunt, not here at the lodge.
