Next week will be my 52nd and last issue of the Ballard News Tribune as its editor. I'll hang on for a few weeks as a reporter and editing duties will pass to the capable hands of Jack Mayne, also editor of the West Seattle Herald.

In this, my farewell address, I'm tempted to wax nostalgic about my accomplishments and toss off a few clich/s about the wonder of the Ballard community and its ineffable uniqueness, but such would be writing a column of least resistance; a farewell rubber stamp.

Instead of focusing on the details of what I did or how I did it (my way, on both counts) I'd like to answer the question of why.

It's a lot of work editing the paper. There are lots of long nights and little in the way of pay. It is not a job that allows for camaraderie. Most conversations you find yourself in have some kind of ulterior motive, either your motives, or those of someone else, or both. The editor's role has been challenging for someone as unsubtle as myself. I've achieved mixed results and yet find myself proud of the effort. But I wasn't entirely sure why I did the job I did at the Ballard News-Tribune until I hiked along the Wonderland Trail last week.

"I don't know why I do it. God, my feet are killing me."

A guy named Robin was considering his rational for doing the hundred-and-something-mile-long trail around Mount Rainier for this his third time. We were both camping along the trail, at Nickel Creek, and the next day he would hike out at Longmire. Gray clouds had settled in over us, threatening rain.

Hiking the Wonderland Trail, well groomed though it is, is a kind of beautiful war of attrition. The views seem almost endless; valleys, river canyons, rock walls, snow fields, muddy bogs and old forests flocked with lichen and of course, when not hidden, the grand panorama of the big mountain itself.

But the trail's length seems endless too. Because it's on the side of that mountain, it is an exercise in climbing up and down the flanks of Rainier. You can conceptualize all of it on a topographic map (or six, if you're using the USGS 7.5 series) but it won't do justice to the elegance, or the pain, of 20,000 or so feet of elevation loss and gain. Fire in the quadriceps and calves on the way up and bruising blows to ankles, knees and feet on the way down, all over uneven ground with the equivalent of a 5-year-old child strapped to your back.

It only takes one tender-footed trip over a rickety log-bridge, with your bed roll getting tangled on the hand holds, to understand why pictures and words fall so far short.

I think Robin probably knew why he was there, getting packed the next morning, and gearing up for climbing the eight miles and 2500 feet of elevation back to Reflection Lake, before another five miles and equivalent number of feet downhill back to Longmire. He was following the same red compass needle I was; the cocktail of passion, curiosity, pride.

Call it pull. You have to know how it is. You have to go. Pictures and words just aren't enough, even if they're your stock and trade.

Before the killer views and thrilling adventure comes the endless slog through the mud where a trail used to be. When it gets really tough and you can feel every rock squishing your metatarsal nerves under your waterlogged, unforgiving leather boots, and the legs of that camp stove start digging into your latissimus muscles, that's when the demons in your head become insurmountable obstacles without the pull.

Did I put enough iodine in my water? Is it ever going to stop raining? Are there going to be earwigs in my sleeping bag again? What if I'm too old to be doing this? What if you get hurt in a car accident on Aurora covering the GAIN meeting? My insurance sucks. Who's going to take care of you, old man? You left a good job for what, the life of a vagabond poet? You started too late. No one gives a shit what you write. They all just read "Cops" anyway. And who is going to be there if you get in a jam? You're all alone, crashing cymbals together like a windup monkey with that crazy, toothy grin. Crash! I'm the editor! Crash! I'm the editor!

But just when you're running out of gas, coming out of the box canyon, with the muddy trail at its most acute angle and your pain at its zenith, passion turns that smile of surrender into your very own invictus snarl. If I fall on the rocks I'll eat them. If I lose my pack I'll sleep in the duff. All the waffling and unreturned phone calls and lycra smiles are just logs to throw on the fire to keep my blood boiling. No running back to the car, or the campsite or the advantage-card chardonnay. I'll carry the goddamned load in spite of its weight. The teenager considering his brush with eastern European poverty, the guy painting over graffiti on his day off, the soft spoken architect of Ballard's green spaces and the skateboard warrior who plays guitar. No job I have had provided so much passion-by-example and so many reasons to reject self-pity as my trip around this community's trail.

Suddenly, you're at the top of the hill, the rise in the ridge, the sunshine of a story gone right, a photo that catches someone's eye. An issue you go home and put on your wall-mounted corkboard. All that pain is a memory - the shine on your self-awarded war medals.

I'm afraid that with regard to editing the paper, I've followed the "Leave No Trace" principles a little too closely. I've taken away much more than what I brought. I have the memories of the people I was proud to meet along the trail - those who remind me why I hike in the first place.

My thanks to the people of Ballard, the readers who have endured me as editor while I chased my passion across your borders.