Free The Woman on the Mountain by Sharyn Munro Page A

was a humorous piece on our unfinished building projects. I included a short note which mentioned I was a writer.
    The then editor, Russell Andrews, liked it; he rang and asked if I’d write for them. That was about eight years ago, and it’s been the major source of my small income since, and the most pleasant. Owner builders are a subculture of terrifically energetic, persevering and inspiring people who combine creativity with practicality. I find and follow up leads on interesting owner-built homes, preferably sustainable, ideally handmade. I interview the owner builders, take photos and write the articles, one or two per bi-monthly issue.
    Yet it’s always hard to make the initial phone call, which after all is cold calling, even though most people welcome the idea of sharing the story of their efforts. Then it takes bravado to leave my hermitage and front up, apparently full of confidence, to people I’ve never actually met. Sometimes I feel out of sync, wonder if I’m raving, having been on my own so long. Yet with many of my subjects I have much in common—environmentally, artistically and philosophically.
    And I’ve made friends amongst them, mostly only seen when I return to their regions for another story. Robert Bignell, who took the photo on the back flap, is one who lives in the Hunter. We were sitting outside his Old Brush Studio, watching the waterbirds on his lagoon, having a coffee and sorting out what was wrong with the world, when he said, ‘Hang on a tick’, and nipped inside. I avoid cameras, but he’s a professional, so he snapped me suddenly and sneakily, which is why I have a rather odd look on my face. His excuse was that the light was too good to pass up.
    Close friends are rare in my experience—and precious. One of the reasons I’d been determined to return to the bush and live the life I felt was right for me was that I’d been forced to accept the fragility of the future. The only two female friends I’d made in Sydney had died.
    Susan, younger than I was, stumbled and fell for no apparent reason one day at the office; she was found to have a brain tumour. I watched her fight against dying, sharing it when she’d let me. It seemed particularly unfair that it was her clever brain being attacked. She was justly angry—and brave.
    Janet, so shy of internal examinations that she never had pap smears, was finally diagnosed with advanced cervical cancer. We’d been swapping wind remedies, which didn’t help because her problem was secondary bowel cancer. I shared her battle to the end too, more closely, at home, hospital, hospice. Janet was scared—and brave.
    Then just before I moved back to the bush I learnt that my old friend Tony had liver cancer. I’d known Tony for 30 years; my ex-husband’s best friend, once. He’d let the friendship with Tony drop, but I hadn’t. An ABC journalist, Tony had made a happy second marriage, with Jo. When I first went to Sydney to look for work they put me up—and put up with my teary marital post-mortems. We’d had less contact since they moved to Tasmania.
    He and I grew closer through letters over the two years of life that he fought for and won. He read my first attempts at short stories and I read his new poems. I went down to Sydney whenever he flew over for treatment, and the last time, knowingly to say goodbye. I managed to bring him up to the mountain twice. He knew it from the early days. ‘I always thought this was one of the great escapes, ’ he said.
    How Tony dealt with his cancer was typical: he involved himself totally with his specialist’s radical theories and treatments; enrolled in French at uni (so he could read Proust in the original, he said); started writing poetry again—he had true talent but life had somehow sidetracked him; and took surfing lessons. From my desk I can see my favourite photo of him. On a beach, he’s dripping wet, grinning through his greying beard, wearing a purple and black wetsuit. Hey,