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The patter of rain hitting the roof is one of my favorite sounds in the world. However, waking to the sound knowing I had 7 miles of hiking to my next shelter left a little pit of dread in my stomach instead. It was the second day of my three day trek on the Routeburn Track. After a breakfast of instant oatmeal, I discovered I had purchased too small of a rain cover for my 75L backpack. This was my first solo multi-day backpacking experience, so not double-checking the gear before I left seemed a rookie mistake. I repacked everything, jerry-rigging the cover to protect most of the pack, leaving only the empty top pouch exposed. I quickly ascended through the forest overlooking Lake Mackenzie. The lake’s turquoise edges were still evident even through the heavy curtain of rain. I overpassed a few who had left before me, rapidly becoming out of breath because the rain brought out my power speed walk. My goal was to make it to the Routeburn Falls Hut as quickly as possible. Upon rounding the corner to the top of the ridge, the full assault of wind and rain hit. I had reached the Hollyford Face, the most exposed section of the track. There was no hiding anywhere from Mother Nature. My pants quickly soaked through. Rain seeped through the tops of my waterproof hiking boots, forming mini pools in each shoe. A low fog hugged the track, leaving the orange poles as my guide. Occasionally, peaks and falls managed to poke through the fog. I soon felt as though I was in another world. The day before helicopters buzzed above and trail runners whipped by me; now, I heard nothing but the rustle of my rain coat and saw no one behind or ahead. I truly felt alone in the wilderness for the first time. As the wind tried to blow me off the side of the mountain, I sang to myself over and over again, “So this is Christmas, and what have you done?” The paranoia slowly crept in that maybe no one was coming from the other direction because a bridge had wiped out or their warden had warned them of some impending doom. Before my paranoia got full blown, a lone female passed me. With her simple “Merry Christmas,” my faith was restored. I reached the Harris Saddle Shelter, the lone reprieve on the ridge. Inside, steam rose from everyone else trying to catch a break from the elements. My attempts to wring some of the water out of my socks, shoes, and pants were a lost cause. Thankfully, the raincover had done its job, and the contents of my bag had been spared. As I ate handfuls of trail mix and beef jerky, I tried not to be too jealous of the couples with their propane burners and steaming pots of tea. Revitalized, I began my descent off the ridge and came upon Lake Harris. The mountains dropped directly into the dark water of the lake, like sides of a fishbowl. Tumbling down from their rocky faces were little waterfalls; waterfall after waterfall cascading into the lake. The sound of all the falls filled the air. I smiled. I soon passed some guys in DOC jackets. "Ah,” they said, “You’re the first one we’ve seen! There’s a fire going at the hut. Not too bad, eh?" And I couldn't help but agree with them and their enthusiasm. A beautiful blue sky greeted me the next morning, so I decided to trek back up to the shelter to see what I had missed in the rain. Only armed with my camera and a bottle of water, it's amazing how much faster the walking goes. As I reached the lake, I discovered that the multitude of mini falls had already disappeared; they were just a fleeting moment of magic.