Chapter 4 #2
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 get camp 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.”
With tents established, I organize the cooking area while teaching Lena basic campcraft. Her city instincts work against her at every turn—reaching for water without filtering it, stowing food in her tent, wandering off without telling anyone where she’s going.
“Bears?” she repeats when I explain proper food storage. “Like, actual bears might come into our camp?”
“They might. That’s why we hang food away from the sleeping area.” She observes with growing concern as I demonstrate the proper technique for creating a bear hang, tossing a rope over a high branch. She asks what happens if a bear ignores the precautions.
“Make noise. Appear big. Stand your ground. They usually avoid people.” She still looks terrified.
As darkness falls, we gather around the camp stove for a simple meal of dehydrated stew. The crew shares stories of other shoots in remote locations, their voices carrying in the stillness of the mountain evening. Lena says little, observing the sky as stars appear one by one.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” I say, following her line of sight. “No light pollution up here.”
“I’ve never witnessed so many stars,” she admits. “In LA, you’re lucky to find a dozen.”
“Wait until the moon sets. It gets even better.”
She pulls her jacket tighter against the evening chill. “How cold does it get at night?”
“This time of year? Low forties, perhaps high thirties.”
“That’s freezing.”
“That’s summer in the mountains. Your sleeping bag is rated for much colder. You’ll be fine.”
As the others drift toward their tents, I spot Lena by the cooking area, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond our camp. “Everything okay?” I ask.
She startles slightly. “Just taking it all in.” I don’t believe her for a second. “The bathroom is that way,” I say, pointing to a designated spot at the edge of camp. “Take a headlamp. Make noise. You’ll be fine.”
Relief crosses her face. “Thanks.”
When she returns from her bathroom visit, I expect her to head straight to her tent. Instead, she stops near mine, hesitating.
“Something else?”
“What happens if I need to ... you know ... during the night?”
“Same rules apply. Be smart about it.” She nods but still doesn’t move. “Lena. You climbed a mountain today. You can handle going to the bathroom in the dark.”
“Right. Of course.” She squares her shoulders. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.” I observe her duck into her tent, zipping it securely behind her. Then I check the bear hang one last time before retiring to my shelter.
Sleep comes easily after the day’s exertion, but in the middle of the night, a sound pulls me from deep rest. Shuffling, then a zipper.
Then soft footsteps padding across our campsite.
I peek out from my tent. By moonlight, I can make out Lena’s silhouette as she creeps toward a flat boulder at the edge of camp.
She sits down, pulls something from her pocket, and tilts her face toward the moon’s faint light.
It takes me a second, but yes—she’s applying face cream.
Maybe she’s reading instructions. Or maybe the moonlight is part of the magic. Who knows.
But something about the ritual gives me pause. The careful application, the methodical movements. Not vanity. It had to be about control, some small piece of her old routine.
As she finishes and makes her way back to her tent, I lie awake thinking about the woman behind the performance.
The one who knows scientific names of berries but packs a satin pillowcase.
Who complains about every hardship but refuses to quit.
Who applies cream by moonlight when she thinks no one is observing.
There is more to Lena Kensington than I’ve given her credit for. I’m just not sure what it is yet.