Walter, meanwhile, is too preoccupied with getting out his bong and at-least-two-decades-old weed to be paying attention, so nobody's buying it when he tries to beg off the field trip by pretending his feet are too swollen from standing in front of the amber all day. I will say that it'll be some job trying to jog the memory of ol' Burnout Bishop here.
To northern Pennsylvania they go, and when they arrive, Walter limps out of the van and growls about his likely blood clot, due to Peter refuses to stop at Scranton so Walter could stretch his legs. Peter points out that when you're fugitive it's not a great idea to stop every five minutes to stay limber. I do hope that that excuse doesn't mean there are also bottles full of urine in the van. I mean, even fugitives pull over to go to the bathroom.
Anyway, here they are, in the middle of lovely British Col- uh, I mean, "northern Pennsylvania," at the exact spot marked by the coordinates. But there's nothing here. Maybe Apple Maps still sucks in 2036? Peter asks what Walter was doing out here twenty years ago (which makes the assumption that Walter was out here twenty years ago, which assumes facts not yet in evidence). Before Walter can answer though, the sound of a breaking branch off in the woods draws everyone's attention, and they spot what appears to be a kid hiding behind a tree, some sort of dark paint covering his face. Realizing he's been spotted, the kid darts off. "Is that what we're out here to find?" Peter asks dryly.
So the gang traipse off through the woods, in no great rush, Walter ignoring any kind of Occam's Razor principles by postulating that what they saw was a "wicked tree dwarf" and Peter half-heartedly arguing with him.
Meanwhile, Etta's telling her mom that she used to imagine going on a mission with her: "You have no idea how many battles we won together," says Etta. Olivia says it's a lot to live up to, but Etta assures her that she's even more than she imagined. I bet Anna Torv gets that a lot.
ANYWAY, suddenly the group, which isn't exactly being stealthy, is surrounded by a group of people -- all with black stuff covering their faces and we can see that it's something much thicker and random than paint. They're pointing weapons at the group and our Fringe heroes all put their hands up. "Definitely not dwarves," mutters Walter.