Chapter 4
Chapter Four
FINN
Four in the morning, and the darkness presses against the lodge windows.
I move through the kitchen, packing trail food with efficiency.
Dried meat, nuts, fruit leather, granola.
Things that won’t spoil, are lightweight and packed with energy.
The percolator gurgles on the stove, filling the kitchen with the smell of fresh coffee.
I pour a cup for myself, then pause before reaching for a second mug.
I warm some milk and add it to the cup, the way she likes it.
Don’t know why I bother. Perhaps because eight miles of listening to complaints about black coffee would make the hike seem twice as long.
“Everyone set?” Elliott asks.
I assess the group. “Where’s Lena?”
The silence tells me everything I need to know. I grab the extra coffee. “I’ll check on her.”
The night air bites through my jacket as I cross to her cabin. Light peeks from behind her curtains. Good. At least she’s awake. I knock. Wait. Knock harder.
“One minute!” Her voice sounds frantic.
Three minutes later, the door opens. She stands there fully dressed in hiking gear, hair pulled back, eyes wide. “Is it time already?” She blinks at me, openly shocked. “I thought you said five o’clock.”
“Departure at five. Prep at four.” I hand her the coffee. “Made this for you. Added some warmed milk.”
Surprise flickers across her face, then her shoulders lose some of their stiffness. “Thanks.” She takes a sip, closing her eyes briefly. “I needed this.”
“Pack check in fifteen minutes.”
She steps back, letting me have a view inside the cabin. Three bags sit on her bed, along with piles of clothing and equipment. “I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I pulled everything out.”
“That’s why we’re doing a pack check.” I nod toward the main building. “Finish that coffee, then we can sort through this.”
She takes another long sip. “I’ve barely slept.”
“The trail will wake you up.” I turn back toward the lodge, trusting she’ll follow. “First day’s always the hardest.”
In the lodge kitchen, Elliott is reviewing the day’s shooting plan with his team. They sit around the table with their coffee, examining maps and shot lists. Professional. Prepared. Lena observes from the doorway, her coffee mug clutched between both hands. “What’s the plan?” she asks.
“Eight miles today. Five uphill to reach the basin, then three across to our first campsite. Roughly eight hours of hiking, accounting for breaks and filming.”
Her eyes widen. “That long?”
“Could be six if we keep a good pace.”
“And how far is this place? Total, I mean. ”
“Nineteen miles from here to the peaks.” I lay out a map on the kitchen table. “We’ll take three days to get there, camping twice along the way.”
She stares at the map, brow furrowing at the cluster of topographical lines. “Those are ... mountains?”
“Those are our route.”
Elliott joins us, setting down his coffee. “Everything on schedule?”
“I’m finalizing Lena’s gear,” I say. “Then we can move out.”
Back in her cabin, I help sort through what she’ll need.
All those clothes we bought at Second Chance are now spread across her bed.
“Let’s start with clothes,” I say, picking up the items I helped her select the day before.
“Two base layers, one mid-layer, one outer shell. Two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks.” She nods, observing as I arrange the items.
“Now sleeping gear, cooking equipment, safety supplies...” I stop as I unzip a side pocket of her pack. “Seems like there’s more in here.” I pull out a small makeup bag, then several bottles labeled “serum.” Tubes of creams and lotions follow, a whole counter’s worth.
Lena snatches one bottle from my hand. “I need those.”
“You need all of them?”
“Yes. My skin dries out. The sun, the wind?—”
“Sunscreen will protect you from the sun. A good hat will handle the wind.”
She clutches the products to her chest. “These are necessary.” Her face is clear and perfect, even at this ungodly hour. I sigh. “Pick three. The smallest ones.”
“Five.”
“Four. Including the tinted sunscreen.” I hold up a tube. “This at least serves a practical purpose.”
She considers, then quickly selects a few. “These four. They’re vital. ”
I don’t argue, only make room in her pack. Eight ounces isn’t worth the battle. “The rest stays here.”
The relief on her face tells me I’ve made the right call. I sigh. “Besides, Elliott’s got Carlos—his Director of Photography—filming most of your solo camp life scenes. I suppose you’ll want to look the part.”
The sky has lightened when we finally hit the trail, almost an hour behind schedule.
The path begins behind the lodge, winding through pine forest before climbing toward the Painted Peaks.
Headlamps carve tunnels of light through pre-dawn darkness.
Lena walks behind me, her footsteps uneven on the rough ground.
The crew spreads out between us, filming equipment bouncing on their backs alongside personal gear.
“First water break at the ridge overlook,” I call back. “About two miles up.”
The group falls into rhythm, the only sounds our breathing and the crunch of boots on the trail. Lena keeps pace better than I expect, though I can hear her breathing grow labored on the steeper sections. She’ll feel this tomorrow, but she’s not complaining yet.
When dawn hits the peaks, we stop to film. Elliott positions Lena against the sunrise, her silhouette sharp against the dark mountains and the brightening sky.
“How are you feeling about the journey ahead?” Elliott asks from behind the camera.
The change is remarkable. Lena straightens her posture, her expression shifting to calm determination. “The mountains have their own schedule, their own wisdom. I’m learning to move on their time, not mine.”
The words sound good. The emotion behind them? Pure fiction. The moment the cameras lower, she slumps against a tree, massaging her shoulder where the pack straps dig in. Figured that pack was a mistake. She wouldn’t listen. “How much do these things weigh?” she asks.
“Yours? About twenty-five pounds.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Seems like fifty.”
“Wait until day three. It’ll seem like ten.”
She appears skeptical. “Is that how it works? It gets lighter?”
“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 the first day. 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.”