That's what the ice boaters told me, and you could see what they meant. Lake Wingra is by far the smallest of Madison's lakes, and so it freezes over weeks earlier than the others. With no major snow since it froze, the ice is inviting, sparkles in the sun and is smooth as a mirror, marred only by the cloud chamber tracks left by skates and ice boat blades. Oak leaves that fluttered into the water just weeks ago are now ruddy ghosts of themselves, entombed just below the surface.
The boats are elegant speed machines, and this is a perfect day with a steady, warming breeze coming out of the southwest.
The little boats glide across the frozen lake at warp speed. If they were cars they would get tickets for going too fast in the city. To the casual observer, they seem propelled by magic, because we "know" that nothing with sails goes that fast.
The lake is covered with sail machines flying across the ice. In the background there's a pickup hockey game. Dogs are exploring the frozen world. Life is good.