Plan B because I was supposed to hike Utah’s King’s Peak with my cousin, but an early winter storm scotched our ambitions. Plan B because I had not intended to do the Utah trip at all until until my personal life fell apart one bright Sunday afternoon in June. Plan B because the letter B itself represents the one Shakespearean imperative with which no argument is possible, most days. Sometimes you just have to go on.

The hike was remarkable only for the clouds that socked in the ridge and the high winds over the summit cone. I didn't suffer from any effects of elevation, at least that I could tell, and the switchbacks made for a fairly civilized walk up (at least by White Mountains standards).

But the wind on the summit was especially fierce, especially the last 100 feet. The plunging temperatures also shut off my aging iphone 4S until my warm breath over its lifeless carcass revived the innards long enough so that I could snap a few summit photos and a shoot a breathless movie of myself hunkered down in the shelter.

I was an early bird for once and met only one other hiker on the way up: a woman taking a weekly stroll up the mountain to keep in shape for her search-and-rescue duties. I met dozens on my way down, however, plenty of them dressed in tight jeans and sneakers and woefully underprepared for the freezer that awaited them up top. I warned them, but they never listen.

I’ve ticked Humphreys off my 50 states list, but I’ll add an asterisk for a possible return date so I can attempt to see the rough slit of the Grand Canyon on a clearer day, which I am told is the thing to do.