Ten miles north lies the proverbial fork in the road: U.S. 84 would lead us into Georgia O’Keefe landscapes, but we turn instead onto U.S. 285, which takes us to Ojo Caliente, the geothermal mineral springs that have been sacred to the Tewa people for hundreds of years. The adobe territorial-style hotel, built in 1916, retains the mood of that sparser period, but newer, luxury rooms are being built, and the springs’ renovated facilities include private bathing pools with round kiva fireplaces. Energized by a soak and the house special “milagro relaxation wrap,” we continue up the road to the junction with U.S. 64, at Tres Piedras. Soon, we’re crossing the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, the second-highest cantilevered bridge in the United States, soaring 650 feet above the river. Hawks circle close overhead and rafts move in slow motion below, between striated red cliffs. It’s a sight of heart-pounding beauty, and when we eventually reach our rooms at the Dobson House, an off-the-grid bed-and-breakfast just north of Taos, we’re content for the moment to sit in our airy suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and consider all the miles and eras we have spanned in one day’s drive.
We decide to spend the next day exploring Taos, where the surrounding mountains loom blue-gray and misty, very different from the bold, red-tinged shapes farther south. The town (population 6,000) has long attracted quirky, artsy types, and despite booming development in recent years, it still has plenty of charm seasoned with a healthy sense of wry. It’s here that we find the quintessential New Mexico slogan on hats and T-shirts: “Carpe Mañana.” And it’s here as well that we discover the territory’s finest tortilla soup—thick with chicken and chorizo—at De La Tierra restaurant.
From Taos, we pick up the High Road, N.M. 76, making our way along the mountain to Truchas, elevation 8,400 feet. Driving through the town, which is strung along a narrow ridge road, I have a familiar feeling. The area shares the same lonesome angularity of the Cumberland and Blue Ridge mountains of my birthplace. It’s harsher and more extreme, however, with a chill of eerie spirituality that’s underscored by glimpses of calvarios—large, weathered wooden crosses erected along roads and trails by the Penitentes, who have practiced a mystical form of Catholicism in this region since the 1800s.
A mood of strange grace pervades the drive into Chimayo, where the much-celebrated Santuario sits in a humble corner of the town. Abandoned crutches, letters of thanks, votive candles, and photos fill this small church, whose dirt is said to have healing powers and whose aura of sanctuary feels even more ancient than its thick adobe walls.
It is startling to leave the far highlands for the crowded bustle of Santa Fe, where the most dramatic revolution in New Mexican food has taken place. Beginning in the 1980s with an influx of primarily California-bred young chefs, some extraordinary Nuevo Mexicano dishes have sprung from some remarkable restaurants. But it’s indicative of the power of the original food that on any given day the lines outside the contemporary Cafe Pasqual’s are equaled or surpassed by those at the traditional Tía Sophia, up the street.
For context and amplification of the world we’ve just passed through, we visit the Museum of Spanish Colonial Art, but although there are many more riches worth investigating in Santa Fe, we admit to feeling a little hemmed in. Consequently, we don’t linger long but take the Old Las Vegas Highway out of town, passing an impromptu roadside attraction where vendors offer firewood, natural paving stones, brick-red ristras (strings of drying chiles), and huge, playful wooden animals carved with a chain saw, all sold from the backs of pickup trucks. Touristy, perhaps, to some, but José Luis sees a modern version of a medieval marketplace, not unlike the plaza of Santa Fe in the 18th century.
We point the car south on U.S. 285 and turn onto N.M. 41, to enter the small village of Galisteo, where I lived off and on during the 1970s. Sitting on my porch then, on the steep hill that marks the western side of town, I remember looking east and thinking I had truly arrived at the edge of the world. Today, Galisteo remains distinctly unchanged. Aside from the occasionally open studio galleries of artists, the only commercial establishment is The Galisteo Inn.
Situated in a 300-year-old hacienda next to the Galisteo River and shaded by enormous cottonwoods, the inn offers contemporary creature comforts with old-fashioned New Mexico hospitality. This evening, there is a local Latin jazz combo playing on the lawn next to the dining patio. I sway slightly to the cool, liquid notes while spooning up a cajeta flan made with milk from village goats. We sip Viognier, clean and crisp like the light fragmenting through the trees behind the adobe courtyard wall. Somehow, in that flickering ambience, New Mexico still feels like the edge of the world.
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