Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the February 10, 1945 issue of "The Saturday Evening Post".  The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here.  ​

Once a rich man's game, iceboating today is a sport for anyone who has seventy-five dollars, a craving for speed—and plenty of ice.

ICE on the Shrewsbury! After half a dozen mild winters, the freeze-up of 1940 had clamped a ten-  inch layer of glassy ice over the shallow, brackish river. As if by magic, iceboats appeared from barns, garages, cellars and woodsheds, for this is real ice-boating country, where the sport's traditions run back nearly 100 years. And now the Eastern Ice Yachting Association had voted to hold its annual championship regatta on the famous New Jersey course. 

Two week ends of hard racing had all but completed the program. The pick of the fleets of twelve member clubs had fought for five class championships—an iceboat's class is based on sail area alone—from the tiny Class E Skeeters, with their pocket-handkerchief sails of only seventy-five square feet, to the big, powerful Class A racers, prides of the Shrewsbury, spreading 350 feet of creamy canvas. Between these came the champions of Class D, Class C and Class B, at 125, 175 and 200 square feet. There was just one race to go, the Open Championship, in which all these class champions fight it out without handicap to pick the year's undisputed king of the Eastern ice ways.
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Since early morning, the northwest gale had roared, driving the furred and helmeted skippers to shelter round the clubhouse stove. At the rear of the long room steamed a huge chowder bowl, brimful of tangy, salty brew, concocted from good home-grown Jersey clams by the master hand of the old salt who now pridefully dispensed it. For chowder's "on the house" at Red Bank when the ice is right.

Around the crackling stove, half a dozen younger skippers were tangled in argument with the veterans.

"Why, I can remember the Rocket—eight hunderd an' fifty foot of sail, she had! And you call those little things iceboats!"

"Okay, okay! Just wait till this race gets started—if it ever does!" 

Down the long side of the room was a workbench, where a pair of grimy characters filed away at long v-edged runners held in special blocks at just the proper angle. After filing the blades, they dressed them with light emery cloth and oil until they shone like polished silver.

"There. That ought to hold 'em," grunted one of the workers, as he straightened up and tossed aside his black oily gloves. "Only dirty job in this sport, but you can't get far without doing it, and you sure can't hire anybody to do it for you. How's for some chowder?"

"I'm your man," said his companion. "By the way, who's got a five-sixteenths drill?"

​"Look in my box—that green one under the bench," volunteered one of the men around the stove. 'Clearly, here was a gang who knew and respected one another. They swapped ideas, tools and equipment like sailors swapping telephone numbers after a six months' cruise—apparently with perfect confidence that all favors would be returned in kind whenever possible. The iceboaters are like that. Most of them build their own boats. They have a mutual love for a fast, hard sport—one which automatically weeds out all but the regular guys by the sheer discomfort and disappointments that are part of the game. 

Outside, halyards slapped a tattoo against shivering spars, taut rigging whistled and moaned, and canvas covers whipped viciously, as the fleet stood by, five champions waiting eagerly for the first lull that would permit starting of the Open. Finally, it came.
"Start at 3:15!" flashed the committee. Chowder was forgotten, the stove abandoned, as flying suits were pulled on and helmets buckled down. Shouldering runners, which are always removed at nightfall to prevent rusting, and toting sail bags, the crews lunged out into the gale. Canvas covers were stripped from gleaming mahogany and spruce. Lead weights were strapped to runner planks, runners and rigging given a last check-over before sails were hoisted for the jolting, grinding punishment to come.

"Course shortened to ten miles! Leave all marks to starboard! Skippers and crews ready! Spectators keep back!"
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And there were plenty of spectators, for this was the race that Red Bank had been waiting for. The Class A yachts of time-honored stern-steering design had been undisputed speed kings of the ice for a quarter of a century. Then in the early 1930's, in Wisconsin, where iceboating flourishes under the sponsorship of the Northwestern Ice Yachting Association, a few daring pioneers tried a boat that reversed the usual arrangement, and steered from a single runner up front, something like Sister Susie's tricycle. They gave it a boxlike fuselage for a hull, so the pilot could sit upright and see where he was going—surely desirable at seventy miles an hour. He also was seated down inside the hull, so he could stay aboard without having to be an acrobat as well as a sailor. The traditional jib-and-mainsail rig gave way to the simpler cat, with its single sail. And, surprisingly, the new reverse-English jobs began trimming the pants off the older-style boats. By 1940, several had been brought East, and here they were at Red Bank, daring to tackle the old-style boats of nearly five times their sail area. Even the boldest of the young folks had to admit that the little eighteen-foot Western-built Skeeter, with its one-man crew, looked like a toy out there beside the thirty-five-foot Class A entry boast-ing both a skipper and a sheet tender.

The roar of the cannon sent them away. As the boats leaped away down-river, the big A left the others far behind. Turning the lower mark, she started across the lower river on the outer leg of the triangular course and was nearly a quarter mile ahead.

The old-timers chuckled. "See what we told you? Those little mahogany cracker boxes can't stay with a real ice-boat. Look where they are already!"

Up the river now, they crisscrossed as they tacked their way into the teeth of the gale toward the home stake. Three of the five starters were already far behind, but the little boat was moving up! This was going to be a race, after all. As the mighty Goliath of the river roared up and around the mark to start the second lap, right on her heels, not 100 yards behind, was that pesky little cracker box, the smallest boat in the race. Down the river again, lost in the flying snow. Across the outer leg and back up that wicked zigzag leg to windward. This time the Skeeter was even closer—a hornet chasing an eagle.

 At the end of the third lap, they were even. One to go, and it was anybody's race. Downstream they went, down and across the outer leg, the eagle still ahead, but the hornet right on her tail. The last leg would tell the story. Up they came tacking, turning, fighting for every inch. Then the tiny Skeeter slipped past the big boat not a quarter mile from the finish, and went on to win by fifteen seconds.
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The victory emphasized the fact that iceboating had switched from a rich man's game, with an outlay of $2500 or more for a top-flight racer, to a sport for the average man. The Skeeter that won the 1940 Open cost $350, complete—about as much as a single set of runners for the big yacht she had so neatly trimmed. Annual maintenance on a Skeeter runs in the neighborhood of a ten-dollar bill. By building their own boats, many fans cut the initial cost be-low the $200 mark. For transportation, a car-top carrier or a small two-wheeled trailer does the trick. 

Iceboating had found a level where al-most anyone who wanted to could enjoy it. New clubs sprang up wherever there was ice enough to sail the boats. Be-tween 1931 and 1941, the number of ice-boats in active use was just about quadrupled. Allowing the usual quota of one owner—the skipper—and at least two or three enthusiastic pals per boat, the number of iceboaters was multiplied by twelve to sixteen. More accurate figures are impossible to get. Although organized iceboating was discontinued for the duration, after the regattas of 1942, informal sailing is today going on as usual.

Whenever the conversation gets around to iceboating, there are certain questions that always turn up. The first one, of course, goes: "Well, all kidding aside, how fast do they really go?" And right off the bat we run into the mystery of "faster than the wind." Actually, ice-boats do sail faster than the wind—a whole lot faster, in fact—but only when they're sailing across the wind, not running along with it. An iceboat moves so easily on her polished metal runners that a half-ton boat, once under way, can be pushed along by any ten-year-old, and there's practically no increase in ice friction as the speed increases. At the same time, the sharp V edges of the runners completely eliminate sideslip, so that every ounce of power developed by the sail goes into forward motion. As a result, when the boat is sailed directly across the wind stream, so the wind tries to push her sideways, her runners say "Nothing doing," and she has to slip ahead out of this squeeze play like a watermelon seed popping out from between your fingers.

Furthermore, the forward movement of the boat immediately brings into action a second air flow, equal to the speed of the boat, and coming from dead ahead. Her sails don't feel it, but they don't feel the same breeze as a person standing still, either. What they get and what actually drives the boat is a combination of the true wind and the air current caused by the boat's motion. This combined breeze is known as the "apparent wind," and because iceboats move so easily, they soon build up their apparent wind to a velocity far higher than that of the real wind. They can keep on working the squeeze play and the wind build-up until they get up to about four times the original wind speed. Then the apparent wind is coming from so nearly dead ahead that they can't build it up any more. But four times the speed of the wind is enough for anybody.

​Now you can begin to understand how Long Branch's famous Commodore Price broke every speed record on the books by sailing the Clarel 140 miles an hour one winter day in 1908. He didn't have a hurricane—just a typical winter westerly, with puffs hitting forty or forty-five, and he got the old girl going at just the right angle. Debutante III, of Oshkosh, claims 119 in a race on Gull Lake, Michigan. Flying Dutchman, of the same club, is credited with 124. Both these records are to the credit of the famous skipper, John Buckstaff, of Oshkosh. 

Iceboats, however, don't always go tearing around four times as fast as the wind. Most of the time their speed is closer to twice the wind speed, and because they have to tack to get to wind-ward, they cover a greater distance than the measured course in every race. The real test of a boat's ability is what she can do around a course from a standing start. A comparison of old records with new will show what streamlining and modern rigs have done for speed. In 1892, the famous Jack Frost-720 square feet—set a record by sailing a twenty-mile race on the Hudson River at an average speed of 38.3 miles per hour. Actual distance: 31.4 miles; time: 49 minutes, 30 seconds. Almost a half century later, Charette II, carrying 125 square feet of sail, covered a ten-mile course in 11 minutes, 33 seconds at an average speed of 51.9 miles an hour to win the Eastern Open Championship for 1941.

Having been convinced that iceboats really do make time, our questioner in-variably follows up with this one: "At speeds like that, how do you ever stop the darned things?" Stopping is actually a cinch, provided the skipper hasn't made that basic error known to the trade as "running out of ice." Iceboats will stop in a surprisingly short distance, if they are headed straight into the wind.

"Isn't it dangerous?" In the hands of a fool or a show-off, yes. But properly handled—and it's easy—iceboats are a lot safer than automobiles. For one thing, there's no lurking ditch, nor is there a line of fence posts and a stream of opposing traffic. There's plenty of room; collisions are practically unheard of. Furthermore, with her sharp runners, an iceboat can be steered within a fraction of an inch of where her skipper wants to send her, with one exception. The older type of boat, with stern rudder, some-times will take matters into her own hands, kick up her heels and do a whirling dervish, spinning around two or three times as if trying to shake off both skipper and crew. And sometimes she succeeds.

In 1931, Starke Meyer, of Milwaukee, did some experimenting with models he hoped would lick the spin problem. He decided to reverse the traditional design and give the bow steerer a try. In the next few seasons he built several, all named Paula. The bow steerer turned out to be tremendously fast. Even more encouraging, she proved to be spin-proof. Paula's offspring can be numbered in the thousands. Most numerous are the ubiquitous Skeeters.

In fairness, however, it should be pointed out that, while the bow steerer won't spin and toss you off, she's a dangerous lady in a capsize. She lifts her crew high in the air as she rears, and if she goes over, they may be tossed out from a height of eight or ten feet or, even worse, have the whole works fall with them, in case the mast breaks. A few bad spills of this type occurred when bow steerers were younger and not so well understood. In recent years, skippers have learned always to carry the main sheet—the rope that controls the sail—so that it can be slipped a bit if the boat tries to hike more than a few inches. They have found that the boat makes better speed if she is kept down on the ice than when one runner is reaching for the sky, the way you see them in the newsreels. Since there is no profit and there is real danger in carrying a hike too far, capsizes these days are rare indeed. When they do occur, you may be sure that they are the result of just plain bad driving.

We can just about ignore the old question, "Isn't it terribly cold?" 'Sure it's cold. But everybody gets outdoors in the winter nowadays, and all you have to do is dress for it. For coldest days, ice-boaters smear their faces with camphor ice, petroleum jelly or cold cream, and their lips with pomade—don't laugh, brother; a split lip is no joke—as do skiers, fliers, mountain climbers and lots of other outdoor sportsmen.
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And so we get to the key questions: "Isn't it expensive?" and "How do I get started?" The Skeeter, professionally built at $350, home-built for $75 to $200, has pretty well settled the financial matter, for a good Skeeter is just as fast as anything else, and a lot less trouble. In the old days, when speed was more or less proportional to size, enormous yachts were built, at costs running into the thousands. Largest of all was the Icicle, owned by President Roosevelt's uncle, Commodore John E. Roosevelt, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club at Hyde Park. Originally built in 1869, she was enlarged and remodeled until she reached the amazing length of sixty-nine feet and lugged a thousand-square-foot spread of canvas. 

She has been carefully preserved, and now rests in the Roosevelt museum at Hyde Park. By 1890, she was being consistently beaten by much smaller but more efficient craft, and the big boats gradually dropped into the discard.

The largest yacht still sailing is the Debutante III, owned by Douglas and Camp van Dyke, of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Carrying 618 square feet of sail in a towering rig that completely dwarfs every other boat in sight, she has seen both the Hearst and the Stuart cups, iceboating's premier trophies, lifted from her by smaller boats. The Hearst Cup now rests at Madison, jealously guarded by the 350-square-footer Fritz, owned by Fritz Jungbluth and sailed by Carl Bernard. The Stuart Cup is in Detroit, won and held by Rex Jacobs' fine 350-square-footer Ferdinand, under the able handling of George Hendrie. And even these super-racers have now and again been beaten by little bow steerers carrying 175 square feet or less, which means that a $350 Skeeter will put you right up there with the best of them.

Of real importance is the ease with which these little boats can be transported. In the East, for example, the Skeeter crowd has actually stretched the season from a former average of two months to the present one of nearer four. Opening the season on the earliest ice, up in the hills around Kent, Connecticut, they move down into Southern New York to Orange and Greenwood lakes, or into Northern Jersey to Lakes Hopatcong and Musconetcong. If it's a really hard winter, like that of 1940, the lakes will be snowed under. But there's bound to be ice on the Shrewsbury. So south-ward they go, for a Skeeter can be knocked down ready for the road in half an hour. As the winter wears along, the trek is reversed, until the last days of March find them back in Connecticut, winding up the season in glorious spring sunshine. In Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine, most of the large lakes sport a few boats, and there are several clubs of considerable size. If you're a Midwesterner, Lake St. Clair, at Detroit, Gull Lake, near Kalamazoo, Fox Lake, northwest of Chicago, Lakes Geneva, Mendota, Pewaukee and Winnebago in Wisconsin, or White Bear and Minnetonka in Minnesota, are the hot spots. There are lots of others, and it's a safe bet you live within an hour's drive of iceboating if you're in those latitudes.

And don't think it's all racing. Not by a long shot. Many an enthusiastic ice-boater never races. He probably likes to use tools, and he likes to get outdoors in the wintertime with a group of con-genial spirits. He gets a tremendous kick out of iceboating, even though race day finds him serving on the committee instead of clipping buoys.

The best way to get started is to go where the boats are and get talking to the people who sail them. You'll find them more than friendly, glad to give you a ride, and ready to welcome you heartily if you really get the bug and decide to acquire a boat. Even if you are a fine craftsman and are pretty sure you know just what you want to build, it is far wiser to buy your first iceboat, preferably secondhand. You'll learn a lot about what makes a good one good after you've sailed, rigged and played with one for a couple of seasons. Then is the time to build that superboat for yourself. And many's the fellow who's done it. Fritz, the boat we met a few lines back, winner in 1934 of the Hearst Cup, Stuart Cup, Northwestern Class A and Free-for-All Championships; Elizabeth R., owned and sailed by Rube White, of Red Bank, holder of the North American Class A Pennant; Scout, last winner-1922—of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America, sailed by Capt. Frank Drake, of New Hamburg, who still sails every winter, though shading seventy; my own, Charette II, four times Eastern Class C Champion and twice winner of the Eastern Open—all are home-built boats.
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Iceboating flourished in Northeastern Europe for many years. Stockholm, Riga and Berlin boasted many clubs and active fleets of yachts. Just before the war, the nations around the Baltic Sea banded together into the Europiiischen Eissegel Union, and sailed annual inter-national championships in several sail-area classes. It may well be that the next winter Olympics will see the inauguration of truly international ice yachting. Steps toward this end were under way when war broke out. Once it's over, you can look for more and faster iceboating wherever Jack Frost hangs his hat.

                                                     Construction of Ice-Houses

Ice is a cheap luxury in this country, and the Ice House very justly begins to be reckoned one of the necessary buildings on every complete farming establishment. Indeed it is indispensable to the proper preservation of the products of the Dairy and the Garden, as well as of meats, pastry, & c. It would be a gain to many a family, in one year, of what one that would answer every purpose would cost. We recommend the matter, at once, to the attention of our readers.

The following excellent suggestions on Ice Houses are extracted from the "Horticulturist":
To build an ice house in sandy or gravelly soils, is one of the easiest things in the world. The drainage there is perfect, the dry porous soil is of itself a sufficiently good non-conductor. All that it is necessary to do, is to dig a pit, twelve feet square, and as many deep, line it with logs or joists faced with boards, cover it with a simple roof on a level with the ground, and fill it with ice. Such ice houses built with a trifling cost, and entirely answering the purpose of affording ample supply for a large family, are common in various parts of the country.

But it often happens that one's residence is upon a strong loamy or clayey soil, based upon clay or slate, or, at least, rocky in its substratum. Such a soil is retentive of moisture, and even though it be well drained, the common ice house just described will not preserve ice half through the summer in a locality of that kind. The clayey or rocky soil is always damp – it is always an excellent conductor, and the ice melts in it in spite of the usual precautions.
Something more than the common ice house is therefore needed in all such soils. "How shall it be built?" is the question which has frequently been put to us lately.

We desired Mr. Wyeth's hints for building an ice house for family use, both above ground and below ground.

In the beginning, we should remark that the great ice houses of our ice companies are usually built above ground; and Mr. Wyeth in his letter to us remarks, "we now never build or use an ice house underground; it never preserves ice as well as those built above ground, and costs much more. I, however, send you directions for the construction of both kinds, with slight sketches in explanation." The following are Mr. Wyeth's directions for building:

"1st. An Ice House above ground. An ice house above ground should be built upon the plan of having a double partition, with the hollow space between filled with some non-conducting substance.

In the first place, the frame of the sides should be formed of two ranges of upright joists, 6 x 4 inches; the lower ends of the joists should be put into the ground without sill, which is apt to let air pass through. These two ranges of joists should be about two feet and one-half apart at the bottom, and two feet at the top. At the top these joists should be morticed into the cross-beams, which are to support the upper floor. The joists in the two ranges should be placed each opposite another. They should then be lined or faced on one side with rough boarding, which need not be very tight. This boarding should be nailed to those edges of the joists nearest each other, so that one range of joists shall be outside the building, and the other inside the ice room or vault.

The space between these boardings or partitions should be filled with wet tan, or sawdust, whichever is cheapest or most easily obtained. The reason for using wet material for filling this space is, that during winter it freezes, and until it is again thawed, little or no ice will melt at the sides of the vault.

The bottom of the ice vault should be filled about a foot deep with small blocks of wood; these are levelled and covered with wood shavings, over which a strong plank floor should be laid to receive the ice.

Upon the beams above the vault, a pretty tight floor should also be laid, and this floor should be covered several inches deep with dry tan or sawdust. The roof of the ice house should have considerable pitch, and the space between the upper floor and the roof should be ventilated by a lattice window at each gable end, or something equivalent, to pass out the warm air which will accumulate beneath the roof. A door must be provided in the side of the vault to fill and discharge it; but it should always be closed up higher than the ice, and when not in use should be kept closed altogether.

2d. An Ice House below ground. This his only thoroughly made by building up the sides of the it with a good brick or stone wall, laid in mortar. Inside of this wall set joists, and build a light wooden partition against which to place the ice. A good floor should be laid over the vault as just described, and this should also be covered with dry tan or sawdust. In this floor the door must be cut to give access to the ice.

As regards the bottom of the vault, the floor, the lattice windows in the gables for ventilation, etc., the same remarks will apply that have just been given for the ice house above ground, with the addition that in one of the gables, in this case, must be the door for filling the house with ice.

If the ground where ice houses of either kind are built, is not porous enough to let the melted ice drain away, then there should be a waste pipe to carry it off, which should be slightly ben, so as always to retain enough water in it to prevent the passage of air upwards into the ice house."

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One of the major industries along the upper Hudson River, prior to World War I, was the natural ice business. The ice, once it had reached a desired thickness of at least 12 inches, was cut, or harvested, and stored in huge double-walled wooden structures known as ice houses.
           
The invention and marketing of the home electric refrigerator quickly brought the industry to an end after World War I. Prior to this, almost every household would have had an ice box and used natural ice. Most of the ice for New York City came from the upper Hudson and was delivered to the market by special barges in long river tows.
           
Before World War I, the River would normally begin to freeze over by mid December, at which time all navigation on the River would cease. This was due to two factors. At that time, virtually all commercial vessels were made of wood and new ice would raise havoc with a wooden hull. Also, coal was the most common fuel used for heating and coal all virtually came into the area by railroad, eliminating the need to keep the river open in the winter.
           
During the warmer months of the year, a common sight in city residential areas was an ice wagon pulled by a horse delivering ice in quantities desired by the home owner.
           
In November, most of the horses owned by the ice companies would be taken to the steamboat piers and put on board the freight and passenger boats for transportation to the up-river ice houses. The steamers would stop at the ice house docks, and there a number of horses put ashore for later work on the ice, clearing snow, marking out the ice fields, pulling large pieces of ice through a cut channel to the ice house for storage, etc. The following spring, the process would be reversed and the horses returned to their summer employment of delivering the ice to the city dwellers.

Working on the ice was hard, back breaking, and cold wet work, the work day starting, during the harvest, at dawn and ending at dusk, six days a week. Most of the work, sawing the ice, pushing and pulling the ice cakes by long pike poles, and storing the ice inside the ice houses was pure manual labor. The pay was often but a $1.50 a day. It was not unusual at the peak of the ice harvest for the workers to strike for more money. The settlement would depend on how much ice was already in the ice house and the weather forecast- -since during a mild winter it was crucial to harvest the ice at the right point in time.
           
​The electric refrigerator and artificial ice making brought the natural ice industry to an abrupt end. The large ice houses gradually passed from the scene. Some were torn down, others burned to the ground in impressive fires and a very few survived until World War II for the growing of mushrooms.

                                                  TREMENDOUS SNOW STORM.
New York has just been visited by one of the most splendid snow storms that ever perhaps has taken place since the old colonial times, when sleighing continued on Manhattan Island for three or four months a year without intermission.  The quantity of snow now lying in our streets is beyond any thing that ever appeared in our time.  About four or five years ago, we had a tolerable snow storm, which afforded fine sleighing for six weeks in succession.  But the quantity then was only half what it is at present.

On Thursday night last, the wind at east by north, thermometer 32°, it began to rain with violence, blowing a heavy gale at the same time.  The rain and gale continued all day Friday, the wind shifting, [and] gradually changed to sleet, then small hail, and latterly large light flakes of snow.  On Saturday morning, wind N. E., thermometer 32°, the early risers found the whole city and surrounding country covered with six inches of light flaky snow, which the wind in its hasty journey would seize in its terrible hand, and scatter about in wreaths with perfect ease.  The shipping in the harbor became weather bound -- the packets and steam boats did not dare go to sea.
           
During the whole of Saturday, the snow storm continued.  At mid day, the weather was somewhat soft, but still the wind blew high and occasionally fierce -- The merry sleigh bells began to jingle through the streets.
           
In spite of the weather, Wall street was as crowded as ever, and the gallant brokers kept up their little groups all the morning on the side walk, in the midst of the unruly elements.  The walking was wet and disagreeable.
           
The Ruins, during the snow, presented a most remarkable and novel appearance.  It looked like the burning craters of so many miniature volcanoes on the snowy tops of the Andes or Himalaya mountains. -- Here and there the snow would lay piled up in heaps on the broken fragments of columns, walls, bricks, and other mutilated materials.  Other places were perfectly bare -- a steam, curling up like smoke, as if from half a dozen of steam boilers, was blowing off under the bricks.  On these spots the snow melted as soon as it fell, and was converted by the burning merchandize to little beautiful clouds of vapor.
                       
"The Ruins" -- There had been a disastrous fire in the city a few weeks earlier.
           
On Saturday night, the weather grew colder and colder -- the snow thicker and thicker.  Several snow balling rows broke out among the boys and the hackmen in Broadway.  A squad of young clerks met by arrangement in Broadway, at 9 o'clock, and made a dead set at the rascally hackmen.  At this period the snow was in an admirable condition for snow balling.  It was soft, spungy, abundant and not extremely cold.  From the opposite points the assailants made a severe fusillade upon the hackmen lying very quietly in their hacks near the Park.  They durst not leave the hacks for fear of their horses running away, and the young fellows pelted them without any mercy.  Every body relished the sport -- the very hack horses laughed outright -- shaking their very manes, and switching their tails in joy, as much as to say -- "don't spare the drivers, boys -- they don't spare the whip upon our backs."

Towards eleven o'clock at night, the intensity of the storm increased.  The thermometer gradually sank -- the barometer gradually rose.  Towards morning, however, the thermometer rose again to 32°, wind still violent, and blowing from the N. E.  The soft spungy flakes changed into hard, dry, round, clear, pearly white snow.  Still there was a softness about it which gave it the power of cohesion.  The trees now presented a splendid appearance.  Every branch was thoroughly enveloped with a garment  whiter than fine linen -- to such an extent that many gave way and broke entirely.  In the Park and College Green many trees were then stripped of their pendant branches by the weight of the superincumbent snow.  Round the Bowling Green, on the Battery, and in Wall street, the trees presented the same dismantled appearance.
           
Throughout yesterday morning the wind blew violently apparently from the north-west and across the North River slantingly.  The waves ran furiously against the western side of Castle Garden.  The whole country around looked white -- nothing dark but the surly, agitated, gloomy, disturbed waters.  Bedlow's Island, Governor's Island, Staten Island, looked like so many pearly icebergs rising out of the stormy billows.
           
The London and Liverpool packets, the Ontario and the Roscoe, sailed yesterday, and by this time they must be far on their journey, with a smacking breeze behind, and a boundless ocean ahead.
           
On the Battery, the snow was on a level nearly three feet deep.  On taking a turn there, we found the top of the wooden benches the only [indication of the] foot path.
           
The Rail Road cars which left Philadelphia on Saturday morning, at 7 o'clock, did not reach this city til yesterday at day light.  We learn that they struggled an hour in passing the Delaware at Camden.  The cars could not proceed faster than three or four miles a hour, so deep was the snow.  There was an unusual number of passengers, male and female, besides many small children.  Embarking on board the boat at South Amboy, they made a start for New York, but did not reach further than Perth Amboy, where, by the violence of the gale, the steam boat ran ashore.  Here the passengers remained all night, without food or fuel, or place to lay their heads.  The poor females were in terrible distress.  About three o'clock in the morning, the boat started again, and reached the city about half past five.  It was snowing violently all the time.
           
We learn the line will not resume their operations for some time.  We are therefore cut off from all communication with Philadelphia, except by the ordinary line over land.
           
In the city all the streets running east and west are almost, if not quite impassible, from the snow having been driven into them by the violence of the gale.  The shipping in the docks and at anchor in the stream, present an appearance truly beautiful, and it was well worth the walk to see them.  From the truck to the deck, each mast yard and shroud was covered with a coat of pure white pearly snow.  The dusky sails were covered with a "cloth of brilliant white."  The tarry shrouds were enveloped in a covering as unusual as it was beautiful, and the tout ensemble was strikingly splendid.

In the midst of this dreadful storm, should not a thought be given to the hapless seaman braving its terrors.  May not a tear of pity be dropped for the luckless vessels thrown upon our coast, where all the elements are combined to destroy them.  Many wrecks are strewn along the shore, whose crews, half famished and perishing with cold, are vainly striving to reach the land, in the hope of finding a shelter from the ruthless storm -- death stares them in the face which ever way they move -- if they proceed, how unlikely are they to find a house upon our desolate coast, and if they remain, the snow drift will be their burial place, the saint-like snow their shroud.
           
And how truly is it said, that "one half of this world know not how the other half lives."  How many hundreds of families are there in this city perishing for want of food and warmth.  Let the haughty rich, who are seated by their cheerful fires, think of the sufferings of those devoted wretches -- let them by contributing a few dollars from their heavy purses, alleviate the suffering of thousands, whose grateful prayer of thanks will afford a truer satisfaction and a purer pleasure that the lavish expenditure of thousands upon things, which, if they afford pleasure at all, it is as unreal and fleeting as the summer cloud.
           
Throughout the whole of yesterday it rained -- or snowed -- or sleeted -- or drifted.  Up to a late hour at night, the same weather continued.  In some of the streets the snow is seven feet high.  Last night it had not become extremely cold, but to-day it is expected to be clear, cold and severe -- just such a day as will afford an opportunity for the finest sleighing that we have had in forty years.  For nearly four days and four nights has the weather endured as we have represented it.  To-day, if it should be clear, the whole city will be out sleighing -- sleighs will rise in value, and every thing in the shape of a sleigh will be put in requisition. New York Herald, January 11, 1836, p. 2, cols. 1-2

It is a quiet, cold evening in December 1918. Spread-eagled on the extreme end of our dock, I am fascinated by watching the lake start to freeze. First the surface stops moving, becomes smooth and still - then, suddenly, it wrinkles up into sheets of frozen surface-film, with long crystals spreading out all over. In a few minutes, the frozen film is actually thick enough to lift - very carefully - but of course it is delicate and fragile.

Suddenly my mother's voice calls down from the house, and I have to abandon my scientific research into how ice really forms - but I had seen enough so I have never forgotten it. The entire experience of growing up by the side of a beautiful lake which provided swimming, fishing, sailing, skating and eventually iceboating colored my life from then on - I was eight when we moved there, and twenty-seven when we were forced to abandon the place by the implacable march of the Great Depression.

Of all the activities that Lake Mahopac offered, those I loved the most were those of Winter. Both my parents were excellent skaters - I recall at the age of five I was equipped with a proper pair of single-runner skates firmly attached to shoes, taken to a rink in New York, given a little push and told to "Skate!"

Of course it took a few minutes to get the hang of it - but by mid-afternoon I was waddling around the rink on my own - no holding of parental hands. The folks knew, of course, that double-runner skates are an abomination, and that holding someone's hand is really no help either until after one reaches puberty! Then the motivation is quite another story.

So here is a ten-year-old, excited about winter and all it has I to offer up there in the country, and also an avid reader. I found a book by Ralph Henry Barbour entitled Iceboat Number One in the school library. Clearly this was my undoing - or doing, which ever way you look at it. The story was a typical boy's book - the hero built his own boat, and finally beat the rich boy who had a fancy professionally-built boat, but didn't know how to sail it very well. It didn't take me long to identify with the local hero - but how to begin? 

Right here is where my father's support became what made it all happen. First he bought us a litte book - as it turned out, one of the best books on the subject that existed at that time - about 1920. The title was simply “Ice Boating”, but the contents included articles by most of the leading sportsmen of the time, including the famous Archibald Rogers, owner of “Jack Frost”, last winner of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America. Mr. Rogers' reminiscences of sailing and racing on the Hudson opened our eyes to a really terrific sport - plagued by the vagaries of weather, as always, but truly terrific when it could be done.

Our immediate problem, now that our appetite was whetted, was what sort of boat could we build, with our limited resources and complete lack of facilities to enable us to even dream of a craft like “Jack Frost”, or even a miniature of her. We did have the rig of my father's sailing canoe - strictly Old Town, vintage 1913. We decided to put together something to carry that rig, and see what we could do.

This had to be built of material at hand - planks, framing lumber remaining from the building of our house a year or two earlier. What emerged was a triangular platform with 2x8 planks on edge surrounding it - to keep us from falling out The mast was stepped in a wooden block, and stayed with odd pieces of wire - probably wire clothes line. Three little turnbuckles served to keep this in some sort of order, and the sail hung well enough exactly as it had on the canoe.

Of course, here we were ready to set forth, but on what? What do we do for runners? We had learned enough from our little book to understand that runners had to be sharpened to a V-edge, must have some slight rocker rather than be dead straight on the bottom, and so forth. It was clearly time for Dad to step in again. After all, he was an engineer, he understood the problem, and as it turned out, he knew where to go for help - Naylor's Foundry, in Peekskill. He made some sketches and after a few days, the word came that our runners were ready. They were cut from 313" steel plate, sharpened to a V on the bottom, and hung between pairs of angle irons on a single bolt, so they could rock. The rudder-post and tiller were a little more complex, but they worked OK, which was the main purpose.

It was easy enough to mount these steel parts on our little platform - we were ready to launch! Imagine the excitement by all hands - Mother included (after all, she had learned to skate on the Hudson River and had often hooked a ride behind the local iceboats). To our delight, the little rig sailed fine. As it turned out, the real beneficiaries of this craft were my folks, who sailed it by daylight and by moonlight, while I was away at school playing hockey and getting myself ready for college.

During my college years - 1925-1931 - a fellow-sailor from the Lake who had some remains of a big Hudson River iceboat that had been allowed to lie outdoors in the summer time (the "kiss of death" for any wooden boat not properly covered) - decided to use the rig of his one-design sailboat and build a simple 24-foot boat to carry it. He was lucky to have those fine Hudson River runners - with the good spars and sails he also had, from the summer-sailing class on the Lake, the rest was easy enough. His boat sailed very well - so well that I resolved to go and do likewise - since I too had a sailing rig from the summer boat.

The obvious gap in my equipment was runners, rudder-post and tiller. I resolved to go to New Jersey - Red Bank and Long Branch - where there were lots of iceboats. I finally salvaged a set of runners from a marsh where they had been thrown when the shed where the boat was stored had burned down. This meant the owner no longer had a boat, and had about given up on iceboating. He sold me the lot for a ten-dollar bill. I had my work cut out for me - the shoes were terribly rusty and pitted, and even the oak tops had started to rot. But persistence and plenty of sweat resulted in a fine set of runners, when they were finally finished. The iron was excellent, which I surely did not realize when I found them. Admittedly, I was lucky (and persistent).

This boat sailed very well - in fact, with her good runners and sails, she had a head start on most of the others that were around at that time.

By now, I was an avid iceboater, and the Depression provided me with opportunities for working on boats and sailing them which would never have existed in more prosperous times. At that time (1935-6-7) I was running a small resort hotel, and in the winter, there wasn't much going on during the week. So I tinkered with boats and sailed them whenever possible.
​
In the January 1935 issue of “The Sportsman” magazine, there appeared an article about the great mid-western breakthrough in iceboat design - the advent of the front-steering boat, in Wisconsin. These first bow-steerers were large, like their stern-steering predecessors in the more successful racing classes. But a series of very serious capsizes nearly caused the whole idea of bow-steering to be abandoned while yet really untried. The problem was not with bow-steering per se, but with lack of understanding of the proper size, weight and design of a successful boat that steered from the bow. 

The way to go turned out to be small, rather than large. A man named Walter Beauvais built what he called the “Beau-Skeeter”, only about twelve feet long with an eight-foot cross-plank. Because it was small and light, it could be sailed on the ragged edge of a capsize without fear or danger - if it went over, the pilot fell only a few feet, and by "starting" the sheet, he often kept it right-side-up anyway. The fact that the driver always went up when a bow-steerer "hiked", carried with it the message of possible trouble, and resulted in many improvements in the “Beau-Skeeter” design.

The Palmer Boat Company of Fontana, Wisconsin on Lake Geneva, brought out some very fast single-and-two-seater skeeters that opened my eyes rudely the first time I encountered them on Greenwood Lake. I had won a race the day before with the boat that carried my Lake Mahopac one-design sloop rig, and I thought she was at the least, a pretty good iceboat for the time. We set up a little scrub race between my boat and two of these Palmer skeeters, and they sailed three laps to my two. That was convincing enough -clearly the bow-steerer was the faster type, regardless of size or sail area.

This had continued to be true - the only interest that today exists among the older stern-steerers is confined to racing within their own classes in the Eastern Ice Yachting Association, and competing for certain trophies that are restricted to the classic type. They are entirely different in action and in speed, but they require enough skill to present a challenge -as long as you don't have to be the fastest boat out there.

In the meantime, over the past half-century, the so-called “Skeeter”, which started at 12 ft. long x 8 ft wide, has grown to 24 to 26 ft long and 16 to 18 ft wide, still carrying (theoretically) the original 75 square feet of sail. By taking full advantage of a loophole in the sail-area rule which permits a 12-inch "roach" or projection outside of the straight chord of the sail's leech, with 24 to 26-foot masts, giving a long leech, the actual sail area now being carried is closer to 90 sq. ft. Speeds have jumped into the unbelievable regions - there is even a story from Wisconsin (the hotbed of the big Skeeters) of a boat reputed to have been "clocked" by a State Policeman's radar at over 150 miles per hour.

There are many reasons why this is possible - suffice it to say here that the big, long, "lean and mean" skeeter is the fastest thing on the ice today.
​
Back in the 1936-1937 days, I got involved in building the very best boat I could, following the overall setup of the big Palmer boat that looked to be unreachable. Surely as to finish and fittings she was far out of my reach - but it turned out some of the basic design decisions I had made were correct, and I beat her on every occasion we raced. That is another story - suffice it to say that my 1937 boat, named “Charette II” reposes today in the New York State Museum in Albany, contemplating her medals and past trophies. It has been a nice wind-up to a lengthy career. Ray Ruge. 

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published ​ February 18, 1973.

One day back in February of ‘36 I took a drive to Bear Mountain where the steamboats “Onteora” and “Clermont” were layed up for the winter.  I planned to pay a visit to my friend John Tewbeck, who was the mate on the “Clermont” and acting as shipkeeper for the two steamboats.  He had been second Mate with my brother, Algot, when Algot had been first Mate of the “Onteora” back in 1921.
           
It was an overcast day and looked as if a snow storm might be in the making.  Sure enough, after I arrived aboard the “Clermont” about 2 p.m., it started to snow.  John had to go on an errand to Highland Falls and suggested I wait until he returned.  After he left, I took a walk around the two steamboats, all dark and still in their winter hibernation.
           
As I stood in the silent, cold pilot house of the “Onteora” I couldn’t help but think how it must have been there in the day when the “Onty” was new, back at the turn of the century, and running for the old Catskill Evening Line to Catskill, Hudson, Coxsackie and other up river landings. 

I could almost see the ghosts of Captain Ben Hoff and the Pilots and quartermaster during the early morning hours discussing the political events of the day, as pilot house crews are wont to do.  Perhaps talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s campaigns against Judge Alton B. Parker in 1904 and in 1912 against Wilson and Taft. 

Boyhood Memories
Then my thoughts wandered to the early 1920’s when the “Onteora” had been converted to an excursion steamer and was running between New York and Bear Mountain.  How as a little boy I would visit my brother and be sitting enthralled in that same pilot house.  On one such visit, I remembered looking out the port windows and seeing the steamer “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line running up river at about the same speed as the “Onteora,” getting a little too close.  And Captain Hoff saying “Come on, Amos (meaning Captain Amos Cooper of the “Poughkeepsie”), get over there.”
           
Now, however, all was still and quiet in the pilot house and the only sound was a train on the New York Central going up the east side of the river at the foot of Anthony’s Nose.  How the steam would “siss” across the cold, icy river.
           
I then leisurely walked back on the “Clermont” and went through her cold, silent engine room.  The bright work and moving parts of her engine were all covered with black grease as protection against the onslaught of winter’s rust.  Up in her pilot house, it sure was cold with the snow falling outside.  The brass was all tarnished and dark.  By that time, dusk was falling and the now was coming down heavier.  I couldn’t even make out the Bear Mountain bridge or the aero beacon on top of the Nose. 
           
John Tewbeck came back and said, “Well, Bill I guess you will have to stay here tonight as the roads are very slippery.” So I stayed aboard the “Clermont” all night.  On the second deck, in one of her former staterooms on the port side, John had two cots and a small stove.
 
Rattling Windows
During the night, how the wind rattled her windows and how the “Clermont” creaked and groaned as she tugged on her mooring lines.
           
It was very snug and comfortable that winter’s night in the “Clermont’s” cabin with the reassuring dull red glow from the coal fire in the small stove.  How nice and warm it was to lay in bed and dimly see the lights up in Bear Mountain Park and the snow plows going along the highways very slow with their red lights blinking their warning signals.
           
About 3 a.m. I woke up and dressed.  John, somewhat taken aback, said, “Where are you going at this hour?” I answered, “I’m going to take a walk around the boat to see how it is this hour of the morning in a snowstorm.”
           
After giving me his flashlight, which I took, John said, “I guess there is only one Benson like you in this world.” I replied.  “Well, I will never again have this opportunity to stay all night and walk around a passenger boat tied up at Bear Mountain, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.” John retorted, “Well, Bill, enjoy yourself, while I sleep in this warm bed.”
 
Cold on Deck
I went out on deck.  It was bitter cold, but the snow had lightened up considerable.  I could now clearly see the Bear Mountain highway bridge and the aero light atop the Nose.  How different the river looked all full of ice and snow.
           
I went up to the dark, still pilot house of the “Clermont.” There was something about it that drew me there.  Although it was very cold, I couldn’t help but think of how it must have been in that pilot house in seasons past when the steamboat was alive. 
           
Things were all hustle and bustle with passengers out on the decks, and perhaps the “Clermont” might be going into Stockport on a warm summer's morning with all the pilot house windows and doors open to catch the warm breezes. 
           
Finally, the cold brought my thoughts back to the present and that warm bed and coal stove on the second deck.  John was fast asleep and in a few moments so was I.  About 7 a.m. I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewing coffee and frying ham and eggs.  It was indeed pleasant to eat breakfast by the warm fire and look out on the snow covered park with the sun shining brightly.
 
Recalling That Night
About 10 a.m. I left for home.  After that I went to visit John a number of times, but never again did I stay overnight.  In 1946 he died of a heart attack and the “Clermont” herself was broken up in 1949.  A number of times in years later when going by Bear Mountain on cold and stormy nights, I would think about that night in February 1936 and recall my pleasant winter visit to the layed up steamboats.
           
​I remember an editorial that once appeared in the old New York Herald Tribune when the Day Liner “Washington Irving” was finally sold for scrapping.  The writer observed that of all inanimate objects, ships and steamboats seemed to be endowed with a life of their own and have friends.  I know the truth of the writer’s words, for this was my feeling for the “Clermont” and “Onteora.”

Perhaps in no outing of the year will the confidence and assurance of the beginner bring such unfortunate punishment as in the winter cruises over the snow and in the cold. Neglect of the simple precautions which the expert has learned to regard as absolutely necessary may bring trouble, not merely to the individual, but to the entire party. It is no small trial to find that, because some over-confident amateur has rushed off on the trip with insufficient preparation or equipment, the entire plans of the party must be changed, or perchance the individual will become the ward of the group. A severe frost-bite, a shoe too tight, an ill fitting binding of snowshoe or ski, a broken snow implement- these are generally things which can be avoided with a little anticipation and forethought. It is no joke to attempt to guide or carry home some husky amateur who has paid the penalty of foolhardiness by starting out ill-equipped; nor is it pleasant to be left alone by a sputtering fire in the heart of the snow laden woods while somebody strains to get help. One such experience will cure anybody, and it will also break up a pleasant outing and some of its friendships.

The best plan on all winter outings which take the party any considerable distance from headquarters is to select and appoint a captain known to be familiar with the work in hand. His opinion should be final. He should even have the authority to refuse a place in the party to those who are not properly equipped. This is the custom among many of the oldest and strongest winter organizations of the country, whose winter outings increase in popularity and interest every year.

It is important to keep tally of the number of persons in the party and to “count noses” occasionally, especially where the going is bad and when teams are taken for the return trip or for distant points. In laying out trails, care should be taken to leave marks indicating any possible deviation in the route, either by arrows drawn in the snow, paper stuck in a split stick and stood up in the trail, snow mounds, or broken branches laid across the trail not to be followed. In snowshoe work the leader should adapt his stride to the shortest member of the party. In hill climbing he should make short steps, and the following members of the party should place their snowshoes accurately in the first track so that the steps do not become ragged and useless. Among the valuable items of the equipment, for either individuals or parties, are maps of the country, a compass, drinking cups, matches, knife, extra length of rawhide for possible repairs, safety pins, length of strong rope wound around some member as a belt. A folding candle lantern will often be very useful.

It is not always agreeable to make an extended stop for lunch, and many of the most enthusiastic winter cruisers carry only such lunch as can be conveniently eaten while en route. Shelled nuts, raisins, sweet chocolate, triscuit, malted milk tablets, and crackers, are some of the best quick rations. Snow should not be eaten. If thirsty, a few raisins, lime tablets or even a bit of lemon eaten with a little snow may be used.

Frost bite is the special thing to guard against in most amateur winter outings. It occurs with so little warning that the best plan is for each member of the party to watch the faces and ears of others in the party and give warning. The presence of a white spot should immediately be called attention to, and remedies applied. The first aid in this case is brisk rubbing with a woolen mitten, or glove, on which fresh snow is placed. In the case of frozen parts keep in the cold air and apply only cold treatment such as snow and very cold water until color and sensation return, when warm applications may be gradually used. Vaseline or any other greases should be applied after the frozen part has been brought to normal appearance.

The continued use of snowshoes when the snow is very deep and heavy may bring on Mal de Raquette, most dreaded of all the winter troubles of the far north. It is caused by unusual and severe strain upon the muscles of the lower leg. The veins become clotted by overheating and the blood is kept in the lower extremities. Sometimes the limbs swell to two or three times the normal size and turn black. The premonitory symptoms of this very serious trouble are numbness of the limbs, lassitude and exhaustion. The remedy is to bare the legs to the skin, jump in the snow and stay there until the pain is unbearable, then rub the legs upward, toward the heart, until the flow of blood sets in. When symptoms are slight, the men of the north content themselves with elevating their feet and legs above the level of their heads as they lie and smoke, in which position the blood flows back into the body.

Snow-blindness is frequent among the habitual outdoor folks of the north and should be guarded against by amateurs. There is no glare in all the year so severe as the glare of the sun from ice and snow. In Switzerland, in midsummer, the glacier travelers apply burnt cork to their faces, not merely to avoid sunburn but also to save the eyes. Automobile goggles are an excellent addition to the winter equipment, or smoked glasses, which should be fastened with a cord to the person. In case neither of these things are at hand, and the glare of the sun seems likely to cause trouble to any member of the party, a very simple prevention consists of a bit of flat wood, roughly whittled into the shape of goggles, and in the middle of which a narrow slit is cut. These are the Indians’ snow-goggles.

​No winter outing is complete without a photographic record of its interesting episodes. From the snowshoe tumble, which is so excruciatingly funny- to the other folks- to the tracks of wild creatures in the snow, there ranges every form of pictorial possibility. The equipment, however, should be light, simple and carried in waterproof and snow proof case. A box Kodak of set focus is always ready, and has many advantages.  The postal size folding camera crowds it close in winter value and has scenic uses the cheap instrument lacks. One should remember that at no time of the year is there so much white light as in a mid-winter noon, and that the early day and the late day have deceivingly small amount of white light.

James Cruikshank went on to publish another book, Figure Skating for Women, in 1921, and remained a steadfast supporter of women in sports and outdoor photography. 

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There is no reason why the average country club of the northern part of the United States or Canada should close up shop and hibernate during the winter. Some few pioneering clubs have already demonstrated that there is as much interest in sports of the winter as in those of the summer, and they are keeping open house all the year round. Some of the methods which are employed to interest the membership and provide what that membership desires in the way winter pastimes may be of value to other organizations.

A toboggan slide will interest a very large proportion of the membership and can generally be managed on such a basis as to pay for itself, or at least for its maintenance. This has been the experience of the famous Ardsley Country Club, Ardsley, N.Y., which even went to the extreme of bringing to its club a recognized tobogganing expert of Canada, who directed the construction of its slide, and manages the rental of the toboggans and the maintenance of the slide. Almost any hilly country is adapted to the erection of a toboggan slide, and with a slight artificial stand with which to create initial impetus, a fine slide can be arranged. In small towns and sparsely settled communities it is often possible to arrange with the authorities for the use of one of the roads for certain hours or certain days, and with the placing of watchers at cross roads some of the magnificent sport which Switzerland enjoys in the way of coasting ought to be possible. 

​The construction of an ice rink is easy where there is either a small brook nearby or water piped to the vicinity. Tennis courts are often used as the foundation of ice rinks, and serve admirably, but the water must be drawn off at the first approach of spring or the field will remain soft for an uncomfortably long time. The better plan is to have a special field for the ice rink, lay clay foundation and make side walls of 8 or 10 inches in height. When the first cold weather comes spray the field with a fine rose spray flung high in the air so that it freezes immediately upon touching the ground. Do not flood any skating field unless you want shell ice, at least not in the vicinity of New York or any place of similar average temperature. Of course, where there is a running brook, the building of a low dam, often merely 2 or 3 feet in height, will serve to back the water up over lowlands and provide a very satisfactory skating field during steady cold weather. A flood-gate should be put in the dam, however, so as to raise the level at any time, and thus create a new skating surface and get rid of the snow. It is most important that when snow has fallen on a skating field it must not be walked over, since the hardened footprints will remain and form annoying lumps, even after the balance of the snow has melted. It is much better to remove all snow as it falls, however, unless the size of the field is too large. Skating on ice which has been formed by spraying onto clay bottom may begin when 1 inch of ice has been formed. Where ice forms over water, the following thicknesses are necessary for various weights; 2 inches will sustain a man or properly spaced infantry; 4 inches will sustain a horse; 6 inches will sustain crowds in motion; 8 inches will sustain men, carriages, and horses; 15 inches will sustain passenger trains. Ice which is disintegrated by the action of salt water loses nearly 50 per cent. of its sustaining strength. It is now generally calculated that the large free skating coming into popularity in this country, and known as the International style, requires a rink of about 25 by 50 feet for a dozen persons.

​Editor's Note: The following is a verbatim transcription of a chapter from Spalding's Winter Sports by James A. Cruikshank, published in 1917 and part of the Ray Ruge Collection at the Hudson River Maritime Museum. Many thanks to volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing this booklet.

Where winter is at all reliable, and snow and ice can be confidently counted upon in advance, no outdoor festival of the whole year will furnish such invariable delight as the winter carnival. There seems to be some unique quality about winter which stimulates to merriment and enthusiasm. It is something more than the scientific fact that one-seventh more oxygen is found in the cold air of winter than in the warm air of summer. The same group of young people will reveal in winter depths of fun and prankish tendencies unsuspected by any actions of the summer time. Staid matrons have been known to try the turkey trot on snowshoes who never tried it anywhere else; and contributing thereby entertainment which neither they nor their friends ever before suspected them capable of. Nobody stands about in wallflower pose when the winter carnival is on.

Canada started the world on the winter carnival. And then, because some of the thoughtless folks whom she desired as settlers and immigrants got the mistaken idea that Canada was a land of snow and ice, she suddenly dropped the thing. Now, with a better knowledge of her magnificent climate spread abroad all over the world, she has sensibly gone back to the enjoyment of those delightful and exhilarating winter pastimes which no other people on earth know so well how to arrange and participate in, and she again welcomes the seeker after winter joys. There is inspiration and information for every lover of winter joys in even the briefest visit to the Dominion during the couple of cold months of the year. Perhaps the presence there of so much of the French gayety and vivacity reveals the secret of her wonderful success in the carnivals of winter.

​But Canada is no longer the exclusive authority upon the enjoyment of winter. Switzerland, Norway, and some parts of the United States are but little behind in fostering the winter carnival. it is an unquestioned truth that nowhere in the world is there larger interest in winter pastimes than in the United States.
 
Country clubs, outdoor organizations of all kinds, even groups of serious folks interested primarily in the betterment of the locality or the town in which they live, and in some few cases town governments themselves, are now aware of the delightful vacations which may be enjoyed by merely taking advantage of the local presence of cold weather and snow. On Long Island, New York State, in recent years there has been an illustration of this spirit to the extent of closing the schools when the big bob-sled races with the neighboring town take place, just as in sunny California the schools are often closed when snow falls in order to let the youngsters revel in its unusual beauty. 

All a big winter carnival needs, given the right sort of winter, is a moving spirit. Let somebody start the thing and the expression of interest will be immediate, and support will be generous. The very novelty of the affair will attract attention and draw people. And once it has been successfully carried out there will be large demands for its repetition. The famous ice palaces of Montreal, with their accompanying picturesque carnivals, did not die for lack of interest or patronage; they were killed intentionally, because they carried a wrong impression to the balance of the world. In time they will be revived.
 
An ice palace sounds elaborate and difficult, but it need be neither. Blocks of ice or a foundation of a wooden structure upon which streams of water are played may be employed to create a structure big enough for the sport of attack and defense by armies on snowshoes and skiis, carrying torches and burning red fire. Exceedingly interesting effects can be obtained at very slight expense, providing of course that the local weather man can be relied upon to furnish his part in the program.
 
There may be moonlight snowshoe tramps over the hills, snowshoe races where start and finish are in front of a grand-stand, or in the center of a rink, where folks can keep moving, ski races and ski coasting, skating exhibitions, costume skating with prizes for the best costume representative of winter; skating races, couple skating in fancy movements or speed contests, fancy dancing on skates, individual and couple; parade of decorated sleighs, floats, sleds, or toboggans; parades of snowshoers, ski runners, and skaters in costume.

​Any number of most interesting events can be run off on an ice field, such as hoop races, wheelbarrow races, potato races, snow shovel races, where the men drag the girls one-half the distance and the girls drag the men the other half; night-shirt races, where the girls aid the men to get into a night-shirt, the men skate a short distance and then the girls aid them to get out of the night-shirt; necktie and cigarette races in similar fashion; ski races, where the men or women are drawn by horses; snowshoe obstacle races, getting through a barrel, over a fence, climbing a rope ladder; toboggan races, in which two persons sit on the toboggan and propel it by hands or feet over the ice; and lanterns of all kinds everywhere, electric illumination. If it can be arranged, colored fire, torches, toboggans rigged with tiny batteries and carrying individual insignia and emblems, costumes similarly lighted, topped off by the moonlight.

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Hockey, played on ice, is one of the most fascinating and spectacular games so far devised by the sport loving people of the north. It owes its origin to the Canadians, and was probably a development of Indian games played between Indians and white men. Perhaps no winter sport of the day draws such crowds of spectators or rouses such enthusiasm as a Hockey match between two rival teams from nearby Canadian cities, and the beauty of the game lies largely in the fact that even without technical understanding of the rules, the spectators fully appreciate the spirited play. Hockey may be regarded as the Canadian national game, and it is spreading very rapidly throughout the northern parts of the United States and among many of the winter sport centers of Europe.
 
A hockey field should be 112 feet in length by 58 feet wide. At the ends of this field goal posts, 4 feet in height and 6 feet apart, are erected. Teams consist of seven players each. The necessary implements for the sport are hockey sticks with long handles and flat curved blades, disks of vulcanized rubber called the “puck,” 1 inch thick and 3 inches in diameter. The game is divided into halves of twenty minutes’ duration each, with an intermission. The positions of the seven players are indicated by the names goal-tend, point, cover-point, rover, center, and right and left wings. The rules are very simple. Minor changes in them occur from season to season, and the latest, as published in the Spalding Athletic Library on Ice Hockey, should be consulted. There is penalty for offside play, as in foot ball. Roughness which characterized the early history of the game has been almost entirely eliminated. Speed, endurance, judgement, and skill are now placed above strength, body checking, or interference. The best players of the day are the cleanest players, and are rarely injured or penalized. The game becomes faster and more scientific every season, and team play increases over former individual play. Teams made up of women are organized among skating enthusiasts and there is increasing interest in active participation in this fine sport by the skilled women skaters of the Dominion and of American and Swiss skating centers.

The roarin’ Scotch game of Curling seems steadily to hold its own in spite of its age, the competition of many new forms of winter entertainment and the fact that it is far from spectacular. Among experts, it is claimed that the game is actually increasing in popularity throughout the northern climes where winter means good ice and steady cold. There are over twenty-five affiliated clubs in the Grand National Curling Club of the United States, and in Canada there are many hundreds of clubs, some under royal patronage. The Royal Caledonian Curling Club, with King George V as its patron, is the leading organization.
 
A field of ice, which must be very smooth and 42 yards in length by 10 yards in width, forms the curling ground. Concentric rings, 3 in number, being 2 feet, 4 feet and 7 feet from the center or tee, are drawn on the ice 38 yards from each other. A central line is drawn from tee to tee, also cross lines known as “hog scores,” “sweeping scores,” “back score” and “middle score.” The “hog score” is placed one-sixth of the entire length of the playing field. The stones are of granite, highly polished, not over 44 pounds in weight, nor over 36 inches in circumference. There are two teams of four men each in a game and the absolute dictator of the play is the “skip,” or leader, of each team. The “besom,” or broom, plays a most important part in the game, for with it the speed of the stone may be increased or checked, and to a certain measure even the direction may be altered. With every stone played, a “head” is said to be completed, and an agreed number of “heads” constitutes a game.
 
To the young people of this day, whose lives have not brought them into contact with this ancient and quaint Scottish game, with a written history running back nearly a thousand years, Curling may seem to lack the elements of physical activity and athletic movement, but it makes up fully in the charming humors of the game, merry sallies of wit and picturesque turns of speech. Nor is the handling of 40-pound stones the child’s play which the uninitiated may think.

​The latest rules and records of the game will be found in the Spalding Athletic Library volume devoted to the game of Curling. 

There are a number of interesting and sprightly games which can be played on an ice field in addition to Hockey and Curling. Every ocean traveler is familiar with the fun of shuffleboard as played on the Atlantic liners, and merely the suggestion of its usefulness as a winter sport is needed to bring it into its rightful place in winter sport programs. There are certain general customs in regard to playing the game which may or may not be followed. The very elasticity of the methods of play renders the game especially suited to those places where some sort of impromptu sport can be arranged in which everybody can take part.
 
Shuffleboard, as played on the ice, would best please everybody taking part in the game if made simple as to rules and equipment. The only necessary equipment consists of a set of wooden disks, about 4 inches in diameter and at least 1 inch thick, and the sticks for shoving the disks, which should be about 5 feet in length and furnished with a Y-shaped or half round end which may be part of the stick or fastened to it securely. The disks are shoved, not struck, from a standing position at each tee, toward the concentric circles marked on the ice at the other tee, or into one of nine squares marked out as a tee. These squares may be numbered with reference to the difficulty of their achievement with the disk. Squares of penalty, or “minus” squares are often placed in front. Two, four or more persons may play the game, partners may be chosen, and so tees should be anywhere from 25 to 50 feet apart, the distance being determined by the condition of the ice. Women become very expert at this thoroughly interesting winter pastime.