Chapter 5
Chapter Five
LENA
A sharp twinge in my heel wakes me before dawn.
My eyes open to darkness, the unfamiliar weight of my sleeping bag heavy across my body.
For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am.
Then it hits me—the thin sleeping pad, the Alaskan wilderness hundreds of miles from civilization, and my feet already screaming about another day of hiking.
I’ve never heard such sounds at daybreak.
The forest stirs with life—birds call in patterns I can’t name.
Small creatures rustle through underbrush, wind whispers through pine needles.
No traffic noise. No phones chiming with notifications.
No assistants knocking with coffee and schedule updates.
The profound quiet is alien, almost unnervingly so, though a tiny part of me whispers it might also be peaceful.
Movement outside tells me the crew is awake. A pot clangs against metal, voices whisper, boots crunch on dirt. I force myself to sit up, every joint protesting. This is day two. Only a lifetime of wilderness torture to go.
I crawl out of my sleeping bag and pull on yesterday’s clothes, hating how worn they are.
Dressing in the cramped tent is like performing contortions in a phone booth, but I manage.
I brush my tangled hair and secure it in a ponytail, then dig through my small bag of allowed toiletries for tinted sunscreen.
Without a mirror, I apply by feel, hoping I didn’t smear it on like a toddler with finger paint.
When I emerge from my tent, the camp is bustling with activity. The crew huddles around a small stove where water boils for coffee. Elliott reviews notes with the camera operators.
And Finn watches from a nearby rock, already dressed. His face gives nothing away, but the way he looks at me makes me wonder if he heard anything last night.
“Morning,” I say, attempting cheerful but sounding groggy.
He nods, then holds out a steaming mug of coffee. “Black. Strong enough to wake the dead.”
I cross the campsite for the cup. It hits me again— how does he always know what I need before I do? “Thanks.”
“Sleep, okay?” he asks.
“Like a rock,” I say, sipping the strong coffee. “A very uncomfortable, cold rock with pine roots jabbing my spine all night.”
“It was a toasty fifty degrees.”
“Like I said. Cold.”
His mouth almost curves into amusement. “We break camp in thirty. Need to cover ground before the afternoon heat.”
The thought of putting my boots back on and shouldering that pack makes me want to retreat to my tent. Instead, I nod, drinking my coffee and trying to convince my body it wants to move today.
“Your night cream routine work out okay?” Finn says, not meeting my eyes.
I nearly choke on my coffee. “You saw that?”
He shrugs. “Hard to miss someone wandering around camp at two in the morning.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Force of habit.”
“Must be some powerful stuff to be worth hauling up a mountain.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me. “My skin is my livelihood.”
He looks up, taking his time as his attention settles on my face. “Seems to work.”
Before I can respond, Elliott calls everyone together for a pre-departure briefing.
I set my half-finished coffee aside, not sure how to take Finn’s comment.
He states observations as plain facts, without the layers of meaning I’m used to decoding.
In Hollywood, compliments always come with hidden agendas. Out here, perhaps words are just words.
Breaking camp is a rush of activity—collapsing tents, packing gear, filling water bottles.
Finn moves like he was born to this, quick and sure.
I fumble with my tent until he appears beside me, helping me roll it properly.
“Tuck the poles in the middle,” he says, demonstrating. “Makes for better weight distribution.”
“Thanks,” I say, observing so I can do it myself next time.
When everything is packed and the campsite restored, we set off. Today’s route will take us higher into the mountains, following a ridge trail toward what the maps call Blackwater Basin. The morning air still carries a chill, but the rising sun promises heat.
The first hour passes well enough. My body, though sore, finds a rhythm with the trail. My pack is more familiar now. Finn sets a pace that challenges without overwhelming us, stopping to point out landmarks or interesting plants.
“Cow parsnip,” he says, showing a large-leafed plant with white flowers. “Native. Edible if you know how to prepare it.”
“ Heracleum maximum ,” I say without thinking, then regret it when his eyebrows rise. And a little flicker of something—pride? ridiculous —warms me that the name came so easily. “I think that’s what it’s called.”
“You studied botany?”
“Picked things up here and there,” I say, quickening my pace to avoid more questions.
By mid-morning, what started as mild discomfort in my heel has become real pain. Each step sends jolts up my leg, and I alter my walking to compensate. Finn notices and calls for an early break at a small clearing.
“Let me look at your foot,” he says as I sit on a fallen log.
“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t. “Getting used to the boots.”
He crouches in front of me, ignoring my protest. “Boots shouldn’t hurt. Take it off.”
The cameras film. Elliott hovers nearby, excited at capturing wilderness adversity. I force a strained expression through gritted teeth, playing up the drama for the audience. “This is part of the adventure, right?” I say as I unlace my right boot, wincing as it pulls against tender skin.
Finn helps me remove the boot, then the sock. Three angry blisters have formed—one on my heel, one on the side of my foot, and another at the base of my big toe. All have burst, leaving raw, weeping skin.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Finn asks, his voice low enough that the microphones won’t catch it.
“Didn’t seem important.”
He shakes his head, reaching for his pack. “Suffering isn’t heroic, it’s foolish.” From his first aid kit, he produces antiseptic wipes, ointment, and moleskin. His hands are gentle as he cleans the wounds. The antiseptic stings, but I bite my lip to keep quiet.
And then the forest around me changes. The pine scent sharpens, the bird calls shift, and I’m not in Alaska anymore.
I’m ten years old, sitting on a porch step, my small feet in my grandmother’s lap.
My soles are raw and blistered from following her through mountain meadows all day, basket in hand, collecting herbs and roots for her remedies.
The humid Tennessee air, thick with the smell of honeysuckle and damp earth, feels a world away from this crisp Alaskan air.
“Always tell me when your feet hurt, nina ,” she says, her voice a low, comforting rumble as she applies a strong-smelling, dark green salve to my blisters.
“The plants will still be there tomorrow.” Her hands are dark and callused from decades of digging in the earth, her knuckles gnarled, yet her touch remains gentle as she bandages my feet with soft strips of old cotton.
The afternoon sun filters through the heavy leaves of the grapevines trellised over the porch, casting dappled shadows across the worn, grey floorboards.
“ Manzanilla for inflammation,” she says, her accent wrapping around the Spanish word for chamomile like a familiar hug.
“ Calendula for healing. Always respect the plants that heal you, Magdalena. They give their life for your comfort.” I nod, breathing in the herbal scent that clings to her clothes, a mix of dried herbs, wood smoke, and the faint, sweet smell of the pipe tobacco she sometimes smoked in the evenings.
“Lena?” Finn’s voice pulls me back to the present. His eyes are on my face, concerned. I’ve gone still, my breath caught in my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, blinking away the memory, the shift back to the sharp Alaskan air almost dizzying. “It hurts.”
He regards me longer than necessary, then returns to his task. “These boots don’t fit properly. The Second Chance selection isn’t perfect. We should have spent more time breaking them in.”
“Not your fault,” I say. The words come without thought, but I mean them. He tried to help me prepare. I rushed through the shopping trip .
“We’ll wrap them for now,” he says, carefully applying moleskin to each blister. “At camp tonight, we’ll air them out.”
He glances up. “You’ll want to change your socks more often going forward—midday at least. You can rinse a pair in the creek and let them dry overnight. Rotate through them.”
I nod, watching his hands work. They differ from my grandmother’s—larger, paler, but equally capable. I’m trapped between past and present—the girl who learned plant names in two languages, and the woman I became by burying her.
Elliott edges closer, camera rolling.
“All part of the experience, right?” I say with a camera-ready expression. “No pain, no gain.”
Finn’s mouth tightens, his gaze dipping for a beat—disappointment, maybe, or something close—but he says nothing. He finishes securing the moleskin, then pulls a clean pair of socks from his pack.
“Wear these,” he says. “They’re extras. Thicker. Will help with the pressure points.”
“Won’t you need them?”
“I’ve hiked these trails for twenty years. I came prepared.” He hands them over. “Take them.”
The socks are warm from his pack and soft, despite their practical nature. I pull off both boots, strip the damp socks from my feet, and replace them with his. They’re a little big, but thick and comforting. I lace my boots loosely.
“Better?” he asks as I stand to test it.
It is. The thick socks cushion, and the moleskin protects the raw skin.
“Much. Thank you.”
He nods once, then turns to the group. “Ten more minutes, then we move out. Five miles to lunch.”
Five miles. Yesterday, that distance would have seemed impossible. Today, despite the blisters and muscle aches, I am determined. I can do this.