Mountain ash, that quite diminutive awfully Englishy name for the tallest trees in the world. I stand inside one and imagine myself a rainforest rat, though rat too is inappropriate for the native marsupial. Some of the ash trees have nameplates by the track, decked with superlatives. Busloads tramp past, taking pictures of the nameplate, for future reference. Or themselves: middle-aged wood nymph in sensible daywear. There are no tallest anymore and our foolish world thrives on proofs. They were axed and felled, that weren’t reduced to a namesake by bushfire. This April we visit them and collect fern specimens.