This is the third of four seasonal stories which will be submitted to Crown Jewels over the next year. They are based on true experiences that have occurred to the writer during the last ten years.

A summer search is much like a winter search in that special preparations are required in order for the trip to be as enjoyable as possible. This day in late July would likely be typical of others previously experienced in the heat of summer. My back pack was already loaded with my hooks, pole strap and waist belt, plus about twenty-four replacement insulators. The later were needed as all the lines were not as yet abandoned. Munchies for the day would consist of two apples and two oranges. Six cans of soda water were also taken to replenish fluids lost in the heat. A cream was needed to help protect the lips from the sun. A hat became a recent mandatory accessory as some of the owner's hair had gone A.W.O.L. An ample supply of fly dope or bug spray was carried as the flies and mosquitoes would likely be out in force. Despite the heat, loose but full clothing would be worn to further deter the insects and protect from branches, etc. 

After leaving map coordinates of my search area at home, I was down the highway at 6:15 a.m. facing a clear early morning sky. My trip this day would take me some eighty miles away along a reasonable secondary highway. As indicated on my maps, there are no roads or trails into the area off the highway, only a stream about one and one-half mile long. With the car well off the highway, pack on my back, boots around my neck and rubbers on my feet, I start my stream bed hike. For one-eighth of a mile the stream is fairly shallow and easy walking, but soon after it deepens somewhat and becomes blocked with fallen trees and branches. Crawling over and under the timber becomes so aggravating that I decide to walk up along the stream edge through the thickets. The stream begins to meander back and forth so much that I walk in a straight line from thicket into stream, up onto land and bush, back into stream, over and over again. The black flies and mosquitoes awaken to a surprise breakfast of "O RH negative." Like a thin layer of "3 in 1" oil I cover my face, neck and hands with the bug spray. The bush becomes so tall and thick that I can see little beyond two feet ahead and it becomes increasingly claustrophobic to me. I realize that I am fighting the bush and quickening my pace to get back in the open. This is very tiring and a bit scary, but finally I see the silver threads in the air ahead. Leaving the bush, the air actually feels fresh and cool once out under the telegraph poles. I change back into my hiking boots while I catch my second wind and finish the first can of soda water. 

As is my usual style, I will walk west up on the tracks for four to six miles, and observe the insulators, picking on the return trip. Thus, with the sun then behind me I can see the colors better. Within minutes I can hardly believe my eyes, as to the glass that is on the poles ahead. There is a purple CD 143 and sometimes three on many of the lower crossarms. Some are M.L.O.D. styles and others are of the three piece CAN PAC RY CO style of various embossings. Soon a medium green vertical Withycombe is seen. Then a dark sky blue No Name Montreal Tel. sits ahead. C.P.R.s and G.P.R.s abound. Never in my extensive searches have I ever seen a pocket of such a variety of 143's. And pocket it was, because after about three miles it stopped like a line had been drawn. For the next two miles not one desirable insulator was seen, unless you're into clear Dominion-42's.

It is high noon, and getting hotter by the minute. Some fruit and a drink and I am anxiously retracing my steps down the poles line. Walking in the heat is one thing but climbing up and down poles is quite another. A sweat band is around my head to minimize the salt of exertion and bug spray from running into my eyes. I find I am not climbing as many poles as expected because of damage to the insulators, especially the purples seem prone to base damage, and many are left. But not all; a damaged "backward " goes into the pack as it is full of heavy amber swirling, and a purple R.Y. style full of milk swirls is an attractive addition. Then two alligatored skinned "whittle" molds in a smokey gray were replaced.

The heat and bugs soon drive me back up to the railway tracks for a rest and hopefully a breeze. Already I am thinking about my return trip to the car, along the stream, and some of the fun of the trip subsides.

Back into the gully and under the poles, I fight my way through the slash of long ago cut thickets. A yellow-green CD 126.4 is removed from a pole; a rare visitor to this part of the country. Another climb to secure the Withycombe and it is the home of a spider. I hate spiders or should I say I am nervous of them for sure. He dangles below the skirt, challenging me to take his home. I win but not without a moment of anguish on my part.

Each pole is carefully scanned due to the variety of mold and embossing styles present. The binoculars are sticky due to the bug oil and heat, plus the eye ports are fogging from my perspiration. My stride is rapidly becoming more labored. The heat of the blazing sun has depleted almost all of my energy and I am tired. This is when an accidental fall is most likely so I use extra care as each pole is climbed. The pack feels as heavy as cement and the shoulder and hip straps are chaffing my skin raw. But the glass on the poles is a seductive lure, and I continue to scan each pole as I walk. A C.P.R. in SCA is replaced as well as a No Name CD 145 in a light olive green. Heavily rotted crossarms are continually seen under the brush, but no glass remains on the stubby pins. What were and where are the original insulators that sat on those pins? Some day I must return and check the undergrowth more carefully.

One old pole leaning at about forty-five degrees is climbed, as it swings back and forth with every foot I take. I am bent over sideways within my waist belt reaching for the pin. The insulator turns, as the pin also turns, and the pole swings back and forth. This blue No Name insulator appears to be a scarce double threaded variety, so continue, I do, to work at it. Finally with an aching back, the pin and insulator are removed, but once on the ground I realize that that is it for the day. 

Another can of soda water and on go the rubber boots for the return trip along the stream. It is no easier going back, but at least I know what is ahead this time. As I leave the stream and bush behind, I must look a fright to a passing motorist. My car mirror confirms what the day's trip has done to my appearance, what with welts from swinging branches, matted hair, bug oil and creosote staining my skin. All this is soon forgotten however, after a shower at home, a cool beer or two and a chance to closely examine this trip's jewels. Being able to catalog new additions to the collection only wets the appetite for the next trip and I start to plan again.