Every muscle in my legs and arms was quivering with fatigue as the eyes took a furtive glance upward to the cross arm still 10 feet away. A brief message flashed across my brain: "what are you doing 30 feet up in the air, miles from anywhere, chasing a valueless insulator?" The brief rest and heretical thought ended with a huge breath, and a fatigued lurch moved my body six inches higher. With energy waning, my fingers dug into a small crack in the soft wet wood as the left wrist wedged between the metal cross arm brace and the pole. Legs clamped shakily for another hold as the left arm was thrust through the gap, then despite sharp discomfort, leveraged the body up. All was secure with a firm grip on the pole, lungs heaving, sending oxygen rushing to strengthen tired muscles.

Outstretched fingers grasped the light aqua CD 121 gem and slowly twisted over untold years of dirt, spider webs, and rain swollen oak. The embossing spun into view confirming the initial speculation; AM TEL & TEL CO., a magnificent dollar insulator. The piece tumbled off the peg and landed so far below in the soft embrace of high weeds.

I began to slide down the 40 foot pole and slammed to a halt with a sharp jabbing pain in the right thigh, a wire hanger now hooked my pants 25 feet in the air. Once more, extremely tired muscles had to grip the pole and pull up to clear this dangerous obstacle. The dismount was unglamorous, about a "2" with a bottom - first mud splat, but safe at last. With quivering limbs I admired the mint jewel.

It began to rain again, so off to the car I went to recoup and gaze at this ever so common insulator. It was over 22 years ago in California, that I got involved with this crazy hobby.

Memory flashes of square poles, and rough poles, (but none as high as this pole), midnight climbs with ropes for purple Californias, climbing poles in the Wyoming desert fighting swarms of mosquitoes, (but never any this high), and a dozen other images welled up, but never a pole this high.

So here, at nearly 40, with scraped arms and inner thighs, a broad smile broke over my sweat and rain smeared face. This insulator instantly became one of my most prized possessions.

It had taken nearly an hour to find the correct office to get the needed permission to collect along this line in central Wisconsin. I drove back to another section where the poles were down. I hobbled along in the mist, getting wetter, and colder, and stiffer. 

I found several mint Hemingray No 9's, CD 107 (a new addition to our collection) and a broken Whitall Tatum No 9. I continued on, hoping to find an unbroken W.T. The rain again picked up, so I broke off the hunt to get off of these sandy back country roads before they became impassable.

Back on the gravel road, my eyes were flirting from the road to the cross arms crowded with smoky Armstrong CD 155, Whitall Tatum No. 15, CD 197, and an occasional CD 203. The poles were only some 25 feet high but too wet and too high to climb in the drizzle.

However, one pole was engulfed in a confusion of young hardwoods. I waded through the tangled underbrush to the pole and climbed the trees with ease. Being perched like a sparrow on the upper most spindly branches, swaying over to the cross arms was a challenge. Most of the insulators in this section were clear of wire, except here.

The wire wraps were like new and of course the best pieces were on the end pegs. Being nimble, with long arms and slight of weight has always served me well when snagging glass from the airy heights. I carefully dropped these treasures onto the soft vegetative tangle, slowly crawled down, collected up the prizes and now soaking wet, trudged wearily but tensely excited back to the car. 

The Whitall Tatum CD 197 is embossed with an "A in a circle", not "WT in a triangle", a variant not yet published in John and Carol McDougald's book. (I take their books everywhere). The CD's 155, 197 and 203 were all new additions to our collection. 

An increased tempo in the pounding of wind-driven rain drummed away any thought of retrieving more pieces. The coming darkness and the swirling of silt laden rivulet flowing briskly down the gravel road. 

Collecting insulators has become a family hobby, as it was when I was growing up. Now my wife and two young daughters all scamper along abandoned lines or seek out antique shops and flea markets where a treasure may be awaiting. We have seen a huge section of the country in pursuit of insulators (to include Nickerson, NE; a quaint town that one must really want to see to find). Every flat surface in our home continues to fill up with colored glass jewels as we become a bit more color conscious and discriminating. As we learn more and more about this hobby it becomes all the more -- fascinating. Safe and happy hunting to all.