Looking up from my fieldbook, I saw one of the students running, full tilt. She was coming from the other side of the valley, from the flat lands, across the river. Was it Jo, one of the Third-Years? She was struggling, arms flailing awkwardly as she tried to keep her balance, fists clenched; unsuitable boots made her progress a challenge. Every couple of steps her foot would catch a rabbit hole hidden in the grasses or she would half-trip on an old plough furrow. She stopped across the stream bed from us. Redcheeked, face streaked with dirt, frizzy red hair matted to her forehead, bent over, hands on knees, head up, wheezing in sharp, shallow gasps, she forced out an explanation. ‘. . . found . . . grid 145 . . . eroded surface. . . . Steve says get you . . . bring camera, more bags . . .’