It is mid-morning on a blue-bird day and I am coughing my way up the side of a mountain, suffering from what I will later decide must be bronchitis—constant coughing, weariness, shortness of breath. I’m on the west coast of Tasmania for a writing job, and there’s just enough time to hit the hills on the way home. I don’t have proper boots or gaiters here, so my feet are covered in mud; after pushing through the early patches of overhanging bush, the pad opens up and I scoot up the track as quickly as I can. I feel pretty sick. My breath is rasping as it tries to heave me up the side of the hill.

But it’s worth it. Because this is Mt Tyndall, and there’s fagus in the Tyndalls. It’s the middle of April, mid-autumn, and Nothofagus gunnii, Tasmania’s only deciduous plant, is blazing yellow and orange through the green scrub and slabs of grey rock; sometimes it shines against the snow.