316 THE SALMON RIVERS OF SCOTLAND 



outlet from the Dubh Loch, and must, therefore, be regarded as the 

 real source. This Harta Corrie drains the steep ridge of Drumhain, 

 which on its southern aspect overlooks Loch Coruisk. 



To those who know the Cuillins, the mention of Sligachan is the 

 mention of the eastern boundary of those wonderful hills. The inn, 

 near the mouth of the river, just before the sharp bend to the right, 

 takes the river into its sea loch, is the headquarters for climbing. 

 Many a tired man has thankfully reached this hospitable roof. 

 Here for many years the only map of the Cuillins drawn by Mr. 

 Pilkington was to be found, for the Ordnance Survey never 

 attempted to plot those mountains, the expense being considered 

 out of all proportion to the value. 



Receiving its main supply of water from these enormously steep 

 faces of gabro, in a country famous for its rains, it will be understood 

 that the Sligachan is capable, in a wonderfully short time, of rising 

 in great flood. When the river is dead low as it sometimes is in a 

 dry June, and I have really seen several Junes dry in Skye the 

 river is little but an exposed track of boulders. As a fishing stream 

 it has to be taken just at the right time by the man on the spot. 

 It belongs to Lord Macdonald and to Macleod of Macleod, but 

 visitors at Sligachan Inn can fish it on the west bank. It is better 

 for sea-trout than for salmon, and the best months are July, August, 

 and September. 



But the man who goes fishing in Sligachan is compelled to give 

 as much attention to the wonderful surroundings as to his sport. 

 There is an impressiveness about the dark-coloured Cuillins, with 

 their weird outlines, which is in a manner separate from the im- 

 pressiveness of other grand scenes in Scotland. Loch Coruisk, 

 perhaps of all places, makes a man feel very humble. The upper 

 part of the Sligachan Glen comes near to it. 



" The enormous bulks, their gradual receding to invisible crests, 

 their utter movelessness, their austere silence daunt you. You are 

 conscious of their presence, and you hardly care to speak lest you 

 be overheard. You can't laugh ; you would not crack a joke for the 

 world. Glen Sligachan would be the place to do a little self- 

 examination in. There you would have a sense of your own mean- 

 nesses, selfishnesses, paltry evasions of truth and duty, and find out 

 what a shabby fellow you at heart are ; and, looking up to your 

 silent father- confessors, you would find no mercy in their grim 

 faces." 



And what a deep-set grip the all-mastering hand of Nature takes; 



