Chapter 16 #2
“The audience will respond to authenticity—your connection to nature revealed through this journey.” He gestured broadly. “We pivot from ‘fish out of water’ to ‘return to roots.’ It’s perfect.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not interested in performing a role, Elliott—not even one closer to the truth.”
“I’m not asking you to perform. I’m asking you to share what you know on camera.” His eyes gleam with renewed ambition. “Show them a side of Lena Kensington they’ve never witnessed before.”
Carlos comes to stand beside me. “It could be good, Lena.”
Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps there’s value in showing people that women contain multitudes—that the same hands can apply lipstick and build a fire.
“Fine,” I agree. “But on my terms. No manufactured drama. No staged reactions.”
“Absolutely.” Elliott’s enthusiasm borders on manic. “We film as events unfold. Pure documentary.” I doubt his commitment to authenticity will survive the first dull hour, but it’s a start.
After dinner, we gather around the small campfire for warmth. Elliott seizes the opportunity for an impromptu interview, positioning one of the cameramen to capture the firelight on my face.
“Lena,” he begins, slipping into interviewer mode. “Tell us about your grandmother and how she influenced you.”
I stare into the flames, memories surfacing.
“My parents divorced when I was eight. Mom had to work double shifts, so I spent summers with Gram in the Appalachians. She and my grandfather built a cabin there before he passed. He was still around when I was little—taught me how to tie knots, build fires, basic survival stuff. After he died, Gram kept the place going on her own.”
“That must have been quite an adjustment for a city kid,” Elliott says.
I chuckle at the memory. “I hated it at first. No television, no shopping malls, no indoor plumbing. Mountains and silence and my grandmother’s expectations that I pull my weight.”
“What changed?”
“I did.” I raise my eyes from the flame to the camera lens. “Gram didn’t coddle me. She taught me what she knew. How to identify a few useful plants. How to read basic weather signs.
How to move through the forest without tripping over every root.”
“And yet you chose acting—about as far from the wilderness as one can get.”
“Did I?” I challenge him. “Or did I choose another form of survival? In Hollywood, you learn to read people instead of weather. You navigate social terrain as treacherous as any mountain. You figure out which masks protect you and which leave you exposed.” And I mastered those masks.
But what did it cost me? What part of Magdalena got lost in the construction of Lena?
Elliott blinks, thrown off script. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t.” I feed another small branch into the fire. “But all survival requires the same fundamental skills—observation, adaptation, persistence. Whether you’re facing a blizzard or a bad review.”
The interview continues, different from anything I’ve done before. I speak plainly about the contradictions I’ve lived with—the mountain-taught child inside the polished actress. About the freedom I feel out here, away from expectations and appearances.
Later, as the others sleep, I sit alone outside my tent, Finn’s compass open in my palm.
The needle points north, unwavering despite the mountains around us.
I think of Finn and Dave, making their way down to safety, and hope they’ve reached the helicopter clearing without incident.
Two days until we reunite. Two days to lead this group and prove—to Elliott, to the audience, to myself—that I am more than anyone has allowed me to be.
Morning arrives with a crisp clarity that makes the mountains seem close enough to touch.
I wake before the others, building a small cooking fire and setting water to boil.
As steam rises from the pot, I notice movement at the edge of the basin—a flash of russet fur disappearing into the tree line.
Fox, perhaps. Or marmot. My lips curve, thinking how Gram would have known what animal it was from a brief sighting.
One by one, the others emerge from their tents.
Carlos starts checking his equipment, while the cameramen examine the magnificent landscape for establishing shots.
Elliott emerges last, looking refreshed until he tries to stand upright.
“Ow,” he gasps, clutching his lower back. “What did I sleep on, a rock?”
I bite back a chuckle. “Probably. Did you check your tent site before setting up?”
“I thought that’s what the sleeping pad was for,” he groans, attempting to stretch.
“Try rubbing the sore spot,” I suggest. “Finn showed me that heat helps with muscle pain. If there’s a smooth rock around here, we could heat it in the fire, wrap it in a shirt, and use it as a hot compress.”
Elliott regards me with suspicion. “You're not going to rub dirt in it or suggest some strange plant poultice?”
“I'm an actress, not a shaman,” I laugh. “My knowledge has limits. But I do know basic first aid.”
He attempts another stretch. “I'll try your rock idea if it gets worse. For now, I'll complain loudly and make everyone uncomfortable.”
“That's the Hollywood way,” I agree, which earns a grudging upturn of his lips.
After a breakfast of instant oatmeal and coffee, we pack up camp. Elliott, emboldened by his slightly improved back and yesterday's successful navigation, approaches me with a different proposition.
“I want to point out a few spots along the route to the high basin,” he says, scanning the trail ahead. “The terrain changes should make for compelling footage, especially as we gain elevation.”
“We need to make progress,” I remind him. “That's still the goal, right?”
“Of course, but we have time. According to Finn's timeline, we're ahead of schedule since we reached the basin yesterday.” He's not wrong.
The maps show a relatively straightforward route from here to the high basin and then to Painted Peaks—a gentle ascent up the valley, then a steeper climb to the alpine meadows.
“A few hours of filming won’t hurt,” I concede. “But we pack up and move by noon. I want to make good progress today.”
We spend the morning exploring the lower basin. I show them the few plants I recognize with certainty—some edible greens my grandmother taught me to identify, a birch tree whose bark tastes like wintergreen, a few berries that are safe to eat when ripe.
“I’m no expert,” I admit when Carlos asks about a flower I don’t recognize. “My grandmother knew hundreds of plants, but I only remember the ones we used regularly.”
Elliott watches with growing satisfaction. “This is gold,” he whispers to Carlos. “Straight from the source with camera-ready delivery. We couldn’t have scripted it better.”
“That’s because it’s not scripted,” I remind him, overhearing. “I remember these things.”
“And they said you couldn’t act and be smart,” Elliott jokes, then looks contrite. “Sorry. Old Hollywood habits.”
“At least you recognize it,” I concede, touched by his self-awareness.
By midday, we’ve packed camp and begun our journey toward Painted Peaks. The valley narrows as we ascend, the spring we camped beside growing into a proper stream fed by mountain runoff. The terrain grows rockier, but the path remains clear—a natural route carved by water and wildlife.
We’ve been hiking for perhaps two hours when I notice a change in the bird sounds around us. The cheerful chatter falls silent, replaced by warning calls. I stop, raising my hand to halt the group.
“What is it?” Elliott asks, coming alongside me.
“Something’s spooked the birds.” I sweep my eyes over the slopes on either side of us. “We should be cautious.”
Carlos lowers his voice. “Bear?”
“Possibly.” I keep my tone calm, though my heart races. “Let’s make noise as we walk. Talk, call out. Let any wildlife know we’re coming.”
We continue along the path, making conversation to alert any wildlife to our presence.
Elliott perks up. “So, we should sing? I know all the words to ‘Oklahoma’—”
“Perhaps something less theatrical,” I suggest. “Simple conversation is fine.”
The cameramen walk closer together, watching the rocky slopes above us. The warning in my gut sharpens as we round a bend in the valley. A musky scent drifts on the breeze—distinctive and unmistakable. I stop again, this time with more urgency. “Everyone stay still.”
Ahead, perhaps fifty yards up the trail, a massive golden bear stands on its hind legs, front paws dangling as it tests the air. Even this far off, I could see his coat, a magnificent honey-gold in the sun.
“Holy shit,” Elliott breathes. “Is that?—”
“Grizzletoe,” Carlos whispers in awe. “The legendary Golden Bear of Port Promise. Locals claim he’s been ranging these mountains for twenty years.”
The bear drops to all fours, turning his massive head in our direction. My heart hammers, but I force my breathing to remain steady. “Don’t run,” I whisper to the others. “Whatever happens, do not run.”
“Should we play dead?” Elliott’s voice quavers.
“Not yet. Right now, we need to look big and back away slowly.” I raise my arms above my head, trying to make myself appear larger than the terror currently shrinking me from the inside out.
“Hey, bear!” I call, amazed my voice comes out firm, channeling Gram’s calm authority.
“We are aware of you! We’re passing through! ”
The bear observes us, curiosity in its posture. I continue talking, my voice loud but not threatening, as I slowly step backward. The others follow my lead, arms raised, faces pale with fear.
Grizzletoe lumbers a few steps closer, nose twitching as he tests the air. My mouth goes dry, but I keep talking, voice shaky but steady enough. “Easy, big guy. We’re a couple of humans passing through. No trouble. We know this is your place.”
For a heart-stopping moment, the bear continues toward us. Then, with imperial indifference, it turns aside, ambling down to the stream where it begins to overturn rocks, searching for food beneath them.
“Keep backing up,” I instruct. “Around the bend, out of sight.”
We retreat until the curve of the valley conceals us from the bear. Only then do I lower my arms, my shoulders aching with released tension.
“That,” Elliott says shakily, “was the most terrifying moment of my life.”
One of the cameramen raises his hand. “I got it all on film.”
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.