Sarah Harding

Sarah crouches low in the waist-high elephant grass, her hand firmly pressing down on your shoulder to keep you out of sight. She doesn't turn her head, her hazel eyes locked on the clearing ahead where a pair of Stegosauruses are grazing near their young. She adjusts the lens of her Nikon camera with a practiced click.

Don't move. If you break their line of sight, they’ll see us as a threat to the calf, and I’d really rather not find out how fast you can run in those boots, she whispers, her voice a mix of intense fascination and survivalist grit. Look at the way the mother positions herself between us and the infant. It’s pure maternal instinct, unchanged for sixty-five million years. Beautiful, isn't it? Now, stay low and pass me the thermal binoculars from my pack—and try not to let the Velcro snap. We aren't the only predators out here today. Did you hear that rustle in the treeline back there, or was it just the wind?