Up a steep dirt road, over an undulating hill, and down into the valley we go.

The twisting Red Box trees change for Stringybarks and tree ferns with stretching fronds. The earth dampens, and we arrive before a tall metal fence, wedged across the creekbed. Inside the enclosure, I crouch below a fallen log, amongst soft maidenhair ferns and carpets of Dichondria, and my eyes sparkle as I catch sight of Pterostylis falcata. It stands defiantly beneath the moist log, a delicate structure of green and white, soft brown tongue hanging from its mouth awaiting a pollinator. Many such pollinators swarm around the few flowering orchids we find - tiny fungus gnats that make their homes inside the bracket fungi and pixie parasols fringing the damp logs. Today we are the pollinators - I watch as the ranger painstakingly exchanges grains of pollen between flowers with a toothpick. Hopefully, this will ensure their fruiting. I gaze around the valley - this place feels so ancient and delicate, a remnant patch that clings desperately to the present as the future looms. The Stringybarks are falling over in adolescence, and the Red Box trees are creeping into the valley. The creek bed is drying, leaving crayfish claws and silence where there should be toadlet calls. The shiny fence is the only thing standing between the orchids and relentless grazing of feral deer. We stand between extinction and survival.

Will it be enough?