|Rabbit Sausage at La Boca, Santa Fe|
The first thing we noticed pulling into Santa Fe was that every building looked the same, and surprisingly, it looked kind of great. Pueblo-style motels, pueblo-style strip malls, even a pueblo-Burger King. It was a whole city of curved-edged walls in a terracotta palette to match the surrounding salmon and copper colored desert .
Walking to dinner that night through the narrow, well-preserved streets of downtown, John and I passed by the windows of softly lit galleries, jewelry stores (heavy on turquoise and silver), and Southwestern-themed restaurants with the obligatory cactus in the cover art. The almost full moon, a band playing in the distance on the square, it was all perfectly pleasant. It was just…. “You know,” John said, looking down the cobble stoned street ahead, “it is hard to tell where the real ends and the fake begins.”
Our dinner that night was not any version of Southwestern cuisine but rather one influenced by a distant cousin across the ocean. La Boca, a Spanish tapas restaurant, sits just north of Santa Fe’s main square. The menu held some familiar tapas that were at the same time very local. Patatas bravas, for instance, were made from locally grown fingerlings, skin left on and fried, then served with a sauce made sherry vinegar. The gambas ajillo, another tapas staple, here felt fresh with the additional of local chiles served in a garlic broth instead of the usual oil bath.
On a tip from an REI salesperson in Albuquerque, the next morning we woke early to head to the Pecos Wilderness, a part of Santa Fe few non-locals ever see. Minutes after our car left the town square we were climbing out of the pink desert dotted with scrub and cacti and into a lush, conifer-filled forest.
|Gambas ajillo at La Boca|
The 14 mile round trip to Lake Katherine is supposedly one of the most popular hikes in the area but for whatever reason, we were almost alone that day (save for one grumpy couple who tried to talk us out of the hike, convinced we would never make it back before the afternoon thunderstorm rolled in). The trail rose in sharp ups and knee-busting downs until were emerged above the tree line, snow still visible in some shady patches. At the saddle we gazed to the horizon- on one side was the uninhabited wilderness stretching as far as the eye could see. On the other Santa Fe, its dotted adobe structures almost disappearing into hillsides.
|Lake Katherine hike, Pecos Wilderness near Santa Fe|
Perched on a mesa, the Santa Fe Opera is one of the most unusual, stunning music venues I’ve seen. The permanent tented structure seems designed to showcase the surrounding environment as much as the world-class singers who pass through the space.
The night’s performance, Carmen, was a favorite. But as Carmen seduced soldiers and men smuggled goods over the border, not even Escamillo’s sequined green toreador costume could compete for our attention with the thunderstorm that raged just beyond the tent walls. Lightening cut gashes through midnight blue sky, thunder boomed over the orchestra, wind gusted through audience causing well-heeled women wearing too little clothing to huddle against their partners for warmth. There was action on the stage that night, but the real drama was playing out in the night sky.
Given its tourism draw, that Santa Fe felt a bit manufactured was not surprising. Taos, on the other hand was a place that fired my imagination with thoughts of famous artists and writers. Surely a place that once hosted such literary greats such as D. H. Laurence and Aldous Huxley, not to mention dozens of painters and photographers, had to have a palpable magic. I was eager to have a bit of that fairy dust rub off on me.
|Famous sign of the historic Taos Inn|
Instead I found myself the next day looking at Google Maps and saying to John, “We can’t possibly be only a mile from our hotel.” The hotel where we would be staying, the historic Taos Inn, was supposed to be across from the town square. From where we were on the main road into town, all we could see were fast food chains, discount stores, and strip malls in none of the faux architecture of Santa Fe, just your standard, depressing suburban sprawl.
To our relief on arrival, the hotel had some charm. Each room was unique, decorated with art and furniture from different artisans working in the area. The hotel bar, with nightly music and some of the best margaritas that have ever crossed my lips, was clearly the epicenter of Taos nightlife.
But it turns out those were the only advantages of staying in what Taos calls its “downtown”. An exploration of the main square turned up little more than a sad collection of junk-filled gift shops and more “Southwestern Art” galleries. Finding a place to get a decent cup of coffee and read the paper was only possible thanks to a small café inside a hotel. And the only restaurant with “local” cuisine was about as Southwestern as something you might find in Omaha.
What we needed, we discovered, was to head north, past downtown, as if we were leaving. We needed a hearty Fourth of July, pre-hike breakfast the next morning and we found what we were looking for at the Bear Claw Café, a mile north from our hotel. Breakfast burritos with eggs, potatoes and bacon; blue corn pancakes; scones; food came out of that kitchen fast and furious for people of all ages and sizes looking to get fortified for a big day ahead.
|List of local suppliers at The Love Apple, Taos|
The night before, up the road from the Bear Claw, we had discovered the Love Apple- a farm-to-table restaurant listing so many vendors on a blackboard that if I would have sworn I was in San Francisco or Portland, not New Mexico. A bit further north, we found a hippie-dippie coffee shop called The Spot, a quirky mostly locals joint featuring slow service for great coffee and bathroom walls lined with art work where tin cans became canvases for space aliens and mythical creatures. It was the kind of coffee shop I could see stopping by each day for my morning tea in the unlikely event we ever moved to Taos.
The further we traveled from the center of town, the more Taos became a place where we felt comfortable. But then food is only one part of understanding a place, and Taos still seemed a bit blurry around the edges.
|Hiking to Mt. Wheeler, New Mexico|
We drove north toward the Taos Ski Village nestled in the imposing mountain range jutting up from the desert floor. We were destined for Mt. Wheeler, at 13,200 feet, the tallest peak in New Mexico. All along our hike we met people- Native American families, Bavarian tourists, a man who had last hiked the to the peak 30 years earlier and vowed to come back, as well as local hikers. The final two thousand foot ascent was a strenuous push through a scree field with uncertain footing, screaming calves, and burning lungs. Along the way up people would pass us on their descent saying, “you have this”, “almost there”, “keep going, it is worth it”.
I don’t know what D. H. Lawrence and Aldous Huxley saw in Taos that inspired them. I saw a town that is like a drive-through window, that does little to encourage you to stop, get out, and walk around. But a bit out of town, on a mountain, we shared moments with people not unlike ourselves. We tagged the top then shared it forward, encouraging our fellow hikers on the way down.
At the bottom, we raised a glass and toasted with the Bavarians and other fellow hikers at the brauhaus near the base of the trail. The beer was frosty, the mountain air crisp and clear, and our legs exhausted. This was real. For me, Taos had finally come into focus.
|Every good hike deserves a beer.|
72 W Marcy St, Santa Fe, NM 87501, United States
72 W Marcy St, Santa Fe, NM 87501, United States
Bear Claw Bakery and Cafe
228 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States
The Love Apple
803 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States
900 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States
Amy Powell is a food and travel writer currently on her honeymoon, en route to a new home in Hong Kong. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell