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Oh, that I were writing about snow. But we have no snow, nor any rain. Just endlessly crystal clear, bone-dry autumn days. So instead of spending a fine Saturday exploring the first snow dustings, and instead of writing about fabulous winters past (because my kid changes weekly, not yearly, so any column on winter outdoorsy-ness would feel hopelessly recycled), we drove to Navajo Reservoir. I came up with the "we need to get out of the house" notion; Jonathan, my transplanted New Englander and lover of sailboats, provided the idea of the Reservoir.

The country east of Ignacio was terra incognita until that day. We passed the Southern Utes' latest development in the works - a resort complete with new casino, hotel, and (rumor has it) a bowling alley - turned left toward Arboles, and struck out on a lovely roly-poly road that I, a recent re-discoverer of the wonders of road biking, decided would make a great bike ride. But since this was not about me, nor did I have in my possession a road bike, we poked around the non-town of Arboles until we found the turn-off for the Reservoir and beyond that, our Goal for This Trip - the marina.

Jonathan and Chris possess Boat Genes. Boat Lust. Sailing Urges. And sure enough, once the marina was achieved, an entirely different energy exuded from them. Gone were the "I'm hungry" complaints. The "When are we going to get there" remarks. All sleepiness fled the scene, and we eagerly made our way toward the docks.

Since it was late in the season, about half of the slips were empty. But enough were still occupied for Jonathan to express pleasant surprise at the multitude of bonafide sailing machines.

Now, I know nothing about boats, so I am not even going to bother trying to describe how long some of them were, nor what kind of rigging they had, or anything like that. What I liked was the instant feeling of familial satisfaction. Chris and Jonathan and I looked at the water, and all the little side canyons, and dreamed of sailing toward some unpopulated inlet and boat-camping for the night. The brochure for the Reservoir bragged about 150 miles of shoreline, and the map resembled a mini Lake Powell. As much as I would like to drain Lake Powell, I confess I've always secretly wanted to explore those myriad little coves and fingers of water protruding into rock canyons.

"You'd need a motor to get out of this marina," Jonathan said, noting the protective difficulty of the place.

"Yeah, and rumor has it there isn't much wind unless a storm kicks up," I added, "in which case it could get exciting."

Wistful, we proceeded to a place along the shore where we could skip stones, then back to the visitor's center for information on prices for slips and moorings. "A boat," said Jonathan, repeating the most over-used cliché of the boating world, "is a hole in the water into which you put money." We debated various boat ownership schemes. Would we would keep our fictional boat in the marina or in dry storage? Could we handle a trailer if we did the latter? Or the money if we did the former? We have no room for a boat at our house, so it would have to roost elsewhere - that much was clear.

It was also clear that we needed the boat before we could even remotely talk of its upkeep. Our family tendency is to skip the start-up parts (usually the most expensive, be it summer homes or moving to some exotic locale or buying things) and go right to the logistics of enjoyment. So I said, "Honey," in that wifely way of mine designed to mitigate against my husband's propensity toward ignoring his soul's yearnings, "you need to buy a boat first."

"Yeah, Daddy! Let's buy a boat!" Chris, the Niles Boy, the Oldest Son of the Oldest Son of the Oldest Son of that fine New England sailing family, chimed in.

And his father, in that fine New England way, said, "We'll see."

And so we did see. We followed a big boat being pulled in for winter, all the way back to Ignacio. We bounced between "we'll see" and "let's do it" and "should we dry dock it," and are still doing it. But somehow our field trip was a significant step closer to realizing what was possible, even in the heart of the Southwest, regarding sailing - and therefore, however oddly, it brought us closer to home.

Katharine Niles is the author of the award-winning novel The Basket Maker.