Outside the windows of the Star there is darkness. Inside, John Prine is singing Paradise. He sings, ‘…there's a backwards old town that's often remembered/so many times that my memories are worn…'

Prine sings those words and I search for my own. My silhouette reflects in the window as I look out into the darkness. Yes, I have left my coveted farewell column until darkness. Such is the art of leaving. (Note to self: work on arriving.)

But leaving, I suppose, takes some reflection.

The first stage in the art of leaving is to describe personal experiences no one could possibly care about…

In Carmacks at the end of June, I sat at a picnic table overlooking the Yukon River. I was writing about the River Quest. The Texans voyageur canoe team slid into the checkpoint depleted, falling or being hauled out of their boat. I liked interviewing them in the warm lodge as they sipped steaming soup in the light coming in through the window.

They talked funny.

And I played for the Stanley Cup, on 3rd Street. It was during Hockey Day in Canada, just outside the CBC on 3rd Street. Traffic closed. I left work early, striding down 2nd Ave. with my hockey stick, gritting my teeth. I was excited to play. Then 60 people showed, and my playing time was cut in two. Then three. Then four. At first there were lines. Then it was like Lord of the Flies.

After the road hockey, we all trekked down to the Gold Rush. Ron MacLean, from Hockey Night in Canada – yeah, that Ron MacLean, the dude who has to deal with Don Cherry, the Grandpappy of prejudice, the male diva – Ron MacLean walked into the darkened Gold Rush.

Having interviewed him a couple times, I sat across from Ron MacLean all but demanding a pint. He complied without much needling. I told his wife, ‘You're a lucky lady.'

The second stage in the art of leaving is to relay your own stale glory…

I'm from Labrador City, N.L., a town of about 8,000 souls, brave and otherwise. My buddies all played soccer. A few years later, being a follower, I started playing soccer. After a few years of playing, I earned a spot on the provincial team, which played at the Canada Summer Games. We played Manchester United's youth team (don't ask about the score). We beat P.E.I. 1-0 in a dirty, filthy east coast game. We lost to Alberta 3-0 in the finals, but it was the best finish for Newfoundland (and Labrador?).

For the Star, I've interviewed kids in all sports who have twice the drive and four times the talent. There must be something outside of drive and talent.

The third stage in the art of leaving is to pontificate over subjects you vaguely understand…

The Yukon has a population of 35,000(?) souls, brave and otherwise. By population alone, the Yukon is no match to, for instance, Ontario, at 13 million. But, for being such an isolated region, you certainly think too much about it. All you can do is what the Yukon greats such as Zach Bell, Alexandra Gabor and Jeane Lassen do. Right?

A cyclist, a swimmer, a weightlifter. And what do they do? What restrictions did they have growing up? Isolation? These are individual athletes. Is it team sports the Yukon struggles with? Do teams struggle, given the population?

Yes. I'm sick to my stomach hearing coaches talk of teams struggling because of a lack of game experience, a lack of coaching, a lack of this, a lack of that.

That attitude will only ensure one thing: that you never compete.

The question then becomes, ‘Should we play or should we compete?'

The best interview I had in the Yukon was with Tim Brady, then president of Basketball Yukon.

He was being inducted into the Sport Yukon Hall of Fame.

"There's a lot of people, especially in small places, and including your own thoughts sometimes, that will put a little bit of doubt in your road, and make you think that you can't do something or can't get something done,” Brady told me last year.

He also said, "Winning and losing are connected. You really don't know what it's like to win unless you know how to lose. If you can't lose, it's going to make it difficult for you to win.”

The fourth stage in the art of leaving is to describe a personal experience no one could possibly care about…

In July, I sat on the banks of the Yukon River in Dawson. There were strangers and friends around. People talked and played guitar. I smiled mysteriously, knowing I'd miss this scene someday.