Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
LENA
The weight of Finn’s compass presses against my hip as we climb another ridge.
I touch it through my pocket, something connecting me to him.
Six hours since we separated, and the absence of Finn’s steady presence is a physical ache, sharpened by Elliott’s increasingly questionable navigation.
Honestly, a squirrel with a head injury could probably find north faster than this guy.
He took charge after Finn left, declaring himself our leader with confidence.
“I’ve organized expeditions in the Amazon and the Sahara,” he’d boasted, dismissing my attempts to remind everyone that Finn had suggested I guide them.
Now, after hours of hiking in what feels like circles, Elliott calls for yet another break, mopping sweat from his brow.
“Let me check the map again,” he mutters, unfolding it with trembling fingers. He peers around, confusion plain on his face. “We should have spotted that thumb rock by now.”
I pull out Finn’s compass, checking our bearing.
As I suspected, we’ve been traveling too far east. The thumb rock would be visible if we crested the ridge to our left.
Okay, time to channel some of that Hollister directness.
Waiting for Elliott to figure this out could take us to Canada.
“Elliott,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel.
“I think we need to adjust course. We’re trending east.”
“And how would you know that?” He doesn’t hide his irritation. “An expert in wilderness navigation now, are we?”
I hold up the compass. “Because north is that way. The basin Finn marked is northwest from our starting point.”
“Oh, I understand,” Elliott’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You’ve got a pretty little compass, so you know better than someone who’s organized expeditions across four continents.”
“This isn’t about who knows better.” I keep my voice level. “It’s about finding the right path.”
“And you think you know the right path?” Elliott laughs, the sound sharp and humorless. “The actress who showed up in designer clothes? The woman whose entire wilderness experience comes from a three-day crash course with a mountain guide?”
His words sting, but only because they align with what he believes—not with what’s true.
Carlos clears his throat. “My GPS app says we’re off course too, Elliott.”
“You have a GPS app?” Elliott rounds on him. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because it hardly works out here,” Carlos shrugs. “And you seemed so ... certain.”
Elliott looks from Carlos to me, then at the cameramen who have become fascinated with adjusting their equipment. The silence stretches. “Fine,” he says at last, his voice tight with wounded pride. “Where do you think we should go, Lena?”
“Over that rise.” I point to the ridge crest to our left. “If I’m right, we’ll spot the thumb rock from there, and the basin beyond it.”
Elliott gestures for me to lead, his expression a mixture of doubt and resentment. “By all means. Show us your newfound expertise.”
I sense the cameras on me as I pick a path up the rocky slope, testing handholds before committing. The weight of Elliott’s skepticism presses on me—if I’m wrong, I’ve confirmed his low expectations. But I’m not wrong.
We crest the ridge, and there it stands—a solitary spire of dark rock, jutting skyward like nature’s idea of a thumbs up.
“The thumb,” Carlos breathes beside me. Below it, the landscape opens into a broad natural basin, sheltered by mountains on three sides. A ribbon of silver water cuts through its center—the spring Finn mentioned.
“That’s our camping spot,” I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “We should make it before sunset.”
Elliott looks at the basin, then at me, his expression unreadable. “Lucky guess.”
“Not luck,” I counter, no longer willing to play small. “I spent summers with my grandmother in the Appalachians. She taught me a few things about finding my way. Not everything, but enough to know which way is north and what a map is supposed to look like right-side up.”
“Your grandmother was an outdoorswoman?” Carlos asks, intrigued.
“She lived in the mountains.” My lips curve, remembering her lined face and calloused hands. “Knew some plants, could predict the weather by looking at the sky. Practical knowledge that she passed down to me during those summer visits.”
Elliott’s eyebrows lift. “That wasn’t in your bio, Kensington.”
“Hollywood doesn’t sell movie tickets with stories about actresses who can identify a few edible plants.”
“But the whole premise of this show—” Elliott starts.
“Was to observe me struggle and fail,” I finish for him. “To laugh at the pampered princess out of her element.”
Elliott has the grace to look uncomfortable. “It tested better with focus groups.”
“I’m sure it did.” I turn away from him, starting down the slope toward the basin. “But that’s not the show you’re going to get.”
We descend in single file, following a natural drainage path down the steep terrain. As we near the valley floor, I spot a patch of familiar plants growing beside a seep in the rock face.
“Wait,” I call to the others, kneeling beside the greenery. “I think I recognize these.”
“What are they?” Carlos asks, directing one of the cameramen to capture the moment.
“Yarrow, I think,” I explain, touching the clusters of tiny white flowers. “My grandmother showed me this one. Good for cuts and scrapes, if I remember right.”
Elliott watches with masked interest. “Anything else useful around here?”
“Those might be wild onions.” I point to shoots growing nearby. “But I’d need to check with Finn before eating any of them. Gram always said, ‘When in doubt, go without.’”
As we continue toward the spring, I point out a few more plants that look familiar, though I’m careful to admit when I’m uncertain. Carlos captures everything on camera, prompting me to explain things.
“This is good content,” I overhear him telling Elliott. “Authentic.”
Elliott’s producer instincts override his wounded pride. “Could be interesting. City starlet turns out to know her way around the wild. No one sees it coming.”
When we reach the basin, shadows stretch across the valley floor. Mountains rise around us, their peaks catching the waning sunlight. In two days, Finn will join us. The thought warms me .
“Let’s set up camp near the spring,” I suggest, careful not to sound commanding. “We’ll want easy access to water.”
Elliott hesitates, then nods. “Carlos, get the cameramen to capture some establishing shots of the basin. The light’s perfect right now.”
I lead the way to a level area near the spring but elevated enough to stay dry if it rains again.
Carlos helps me examine the ground for rocks and depressions while the cameramen begin unpacking their equipment.
Elliott watches from a short distance, consulting Finn’s map.
I can almost see his mental calculations—weighing his pride against his desire for compelling footage.
“Need help setting up your tent?” I ask him casually.
“No, I’ve got it,” he replies, though the uncertainty in his voice suggests otherwise.
Ten minutes later, I find him wrestling with a tangle of tent poles, his face flushed with frustration. “These things are designed by sadists,” he mutters, attempting to force a pole into a sleeve that’s not meant to receive it.
“May I?” I hold out my hand for the pole. Elliott surrenders it with a sigh. “Fine. Show me your grandmother’s ancient Appalachian tent-raising wisdom.”
“My grandmother slept under the stars or in a cabin she built herself,” I say, sorting out the poles. “This I learned from Finn, day one.”
“You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?” Elliott asks as I assemble his tent.
“Depends how pleasant you are for the rest of the trip.” I secure the rain fly with a final stake. “There. Rainproof, at least.”
“What about bears?” Elliott’s voice rises an octave. “Are there bears here?”
“I’m told there are bears everywhere in these mountains.” I enjoy his discomfort more than I should. “But they avoid humans unless we give them a reason not to.”
Elliott peers at the tree line. “What kind of reasons?”
“Food left out. Approaching their cubs. Standing between them and an escape route.” I pause for effect. “The usual.”
By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains, we’ve established camp. I remember Finn showing me how to secure our food supplies, and I try to reproduce what he did, using a high branch to suspend our provisions away from curious wildlife.
“My grandmother told me to be alert for bear signs,” I explain as I work. “Claw marks on trees. Overturned rocks. Droppings with berries or pine nuts.”
“Droppings?” one of the cameramen asks.
“Bear poop,” I clarify, unable to suppress a chuckle at his grimace. “That’s about the extent of my bear knowledge, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s talk about something else during dinner,” Elliott suggests, looking queasy.
While the others filter water and prepare our dehydrated meals, I walk the perimeter of our camp, searching for any signs of wildlife.
I hear birds calling and the rustle of small animals in the underbrush.
It reminds me of those summer evenings on Gram’s porch, listening to the forest sounds as darkness fell.
Finn’s warnings about proper food storage echo in my mind.
Out here, an improperly secured camp is an invitation to wildlife—particularly bears.
I’m examining some tracks in the mud near the spring when Carlos approaches. “Elliott wants to talk to you,” he says. “I think he’s coming around.”
I follow Carlos back to camp, where Elliott paces beside the unlit campfire area, clipboard in hand.
“There’s been a development,” he announces as I approach. “I’ve been considering our narrative options, and I believe there’s a compelling story in your unexpected knowledge.”
“You don’t say.”