The Lure Of Santa Fe : Blue Skies. Blue Corn. Art. Adobe. Few Can Resist the Charms of New Mexico’s Enchanting City. And That’s the Problem.

In late spring, the fragrance of pinon log smoke lingers, and a sky bluer than the heavens that lured Van Gogh south to Provence continues to attract artists to Santa Fe.

Nearly a dozen years have lapsed since I drove down the Santa Fe Trail to the plaza and the door to the La Fonda Hotel, beyond which Indians still sell turquoise jewelry to tourists crowding the narrow sidewalk.

With its Spanish and Indian character, Santa Fe has been described as the most charming settlement in the Southwest, a gathering of Pueblo-style adobes and Spanish territorial buildings that surround the ancient plaza. Even a supermarket and service stations take on the appearance of adobe monuments.

Summer winds whisper through the cottonwoods and the hills are green with grass and golden with chamisa. It is a season when opera buffs arrive, along with other music lovers. Yes, and just plain lovers. For Santa Fe is not to be denied. There is this desire to rush home and gather one’s belongings and return, as many do.

Several years ago, artist Jerry Cajko met a couple in a hotel in Kabul, Afghanistan, who convinced him to visit Santa Fe. Now, looking about his 225-year-old adobe, the artist smiles. “I awaken every morning and I say to myself, ‘Can I really be here?’ I feel so lucky. Santa Fe fulfills my needs.”

Another artist, Gary Mauro, paraphrases what Gertrude Stein said about Oakland, Calif. (“The trouble with Oakland is there’s no there there.”) by declaring: “In Santa Fe, there’s tremendous there here.”

Founded in 1610, Santa Fe is the nation’s oldest capital city--high (7,000 feet) and mostly dry except for summer rains, which Bruce Riley McDaniel of the Convention & Visitor’s Bureau blithely describes as “vegetable market spray.” The fact is, occasionally the clouds open up and it pours. The earth shudders as thunder rolls across the plains and electrical storms streak through the heavens. Ponchos and umbrellas are passed out to opera-goers, and water washes from the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. More often than not, though, summer days end with flaming sunsets and an afterglow that shocks the senses.

Years before the pilgrims tossed the anchor in Plymouth, the Spaniards set up a colonial capital in Santa Fe, which during nearly 400 years has been occupied by Indian insurrectionists, defiant Mexicans and the United States. In recent years, the invaders have been the artists--as many as 5,000-- whose works are shown in more than 120 local galleries.

With the fame and cultural wealth, it is feared that Santa Fe is becoming mired in its own success. During summer, streets are choked with campers and cars. Hotels run nearly 100% occupancy. Residents who can afford to flee do so until summer’s end. During July and August, tourists crowd the plaza, the galleries and the magnificent museums. Many bid for turquoise jewelry, pottery, rugs and other crafts sold in stores and by sidewalk vendors and in galleries lining Canyon Road.

Meanwhile, an ongoing battle with developers is waged by the Old Santa Fe Assn. whose aim is to “preserve and maintain the ancient landmarks of old Santa Fe.”

Artist Ford Ruhling, a Santa Fe native, is particularly furious over the construction of the 218-room Eldorado Hotel that blocks his view of Santa Fe’s glorious sunsets. Although the Eldorado conforms to Santa Fe’s adobe-style code, Ruhling, 51, would be delighted to “see it dismantled.”

Dr. Everett Ellin, president of Santa Fe’s Historic Design Review Board, arrived from New York eight years ago and immediately asked himself: “Why am I living in Manhattan?” Ellin closed his apartment in New York and caught the first jet back.

Although enthusiastic, Ellin is concerned that Santa Fe may have oversold itself and “mortgaged its future.” Dressed for the role of a latter-day vigilante--flannel shirt, jeans, boots and a cowboy hat--he stretches his lanky frame. “Our beloved golden goose may be choking on its own omelet.” Still, he opposes a “drawbridge mentality” that would ban all development. His philosophy: “We should live in Santa Fe, not embalm it.”

Meanwhile, tourists continue to pour into Santa Fe, drawn by the summer opera, the Chamber Music Festival and moonlight concerts, as well as Santa Fe’s renowned Fiesta and Indian Market and the lure of the historic town center. Visitors munch on Frito pies at Woolworth’s and laze in the sun in the plaza, where a pancake bake is held on the Fourth of July. And because this was the wild and woolly West, on occasion mountain men ride into town firing black powder and later wash down buffalo steaks with bourbon served in Mason jars.

Crowds sightsee with Roadrunner Tours and take their fill of Mexican fare at The Shed, with its garish walls, and at Pasqual’s, where strings of chilis dangle from the ceiling. On the Santa Fe Trail, Rosalea Murphy, a Louisiana expatriate, operates the enchanting Pink Adobe, whose four small dining rooms appeal to romantics. Candles cast shadows against 300-year-old adobe walls that are hung with Indian rugs and original paintings by Murphy herself. At the door, George Bush is pictured greeting the proprietress during a visit to Santa Fe.

Murphy’s Steak Dunigan, smothered with mushrooms and green chilis, gets raves, as do an excellent lamb curry and spicy shellfish. After dinner, guests exit next door to the Dragon Room, which a national magazine singled out as “one of the two best bars in the United States,” the other chosen watering hole being New York’s venerable 21. Don’t arrive late at the Dragon. Especially on Friday night, when it’s packed wall-to-wall with locals sipping margaritas while listening to the melodies of classical guitarists Antonio Mendoza and Ruben Romero. You’ll recognize the place by the bowls of daisies, heaps of popcorn and an enormous picture of Murphy cuddling her beloved mutt, Rhett Butler. Occasionally when the mood strikes him, Rabbi Leonard Hellman, late of New York, dances through the pub imitating Anthony Quinn in “Zorba the Greek.”

Murphy broke into the restaurant business in the ‘40s peddling hamburgers. The first night she took in $30, the rent was only $60 a month and she was off and running. Married five times, she’s never shifted out of high gear. You’ll find her holding court nightly at Table 10--still attractive, still vivacious.

Others gather at the Coyote Cafe with its wood-grilled seafoods, meats and game--the entrees ranging from grilled maple duck with apricot chutney to rib roast with wild mushroom butter and sweet corn with smoked chili.

Breakfast at Cafe Pasqual is a ritual, with choices ranging from fried polenta with chorizo and red chili sauce to grilled trout in cornmeal with green chili and toasted pinones. For simple fare, Pasqual’s prepares fried blue and yellow cornmeal mush with eggs and maple syrup. The line at noon is long, although seating is frequently available at a communal table in the center of the restaurant.

Artist Ford Ruhling favors Guadaloupe Cafe for Mexican fare and El Nido for its “roadhouse atmosphere.” For “inspired dining” Ruhling chooses Santacafe near the plaza and a menu that lists such choices as grilled salmon with honeydew, cantaloupe and mint salsa, as well as sauteed calf liver with raspberry and arugula.

Santacafe is favored by another well-known local, former Nixon aide John Ehrlichman, who chose the peacefulness of Santa Fe after his tumultuous career in Washington politics. Ehrlichman bought a home in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains where he turns out novels and nurtures his soul with New Mexico’s flaming sunsets.

In a guide that he authored, Ehrlichman tells how he and his wife invite friends to their home “where at dusk they can see the mountains and foothills . . . and carry away with them the extraordinary sense of uplift we feel in this place.” Rabbits scamper through the yard. Coyotes howl at night. Birds sing in the morning.

Like other Santa Fe citizens, Ehrlichman is concerned over the environment--the threat of runaway development, overgrazing and the drain on the water table. With his 9-year-old son he explores the forests and fishes in the San Juan River. Disappointment and tragedy for the Watergate figure have given way to contentment.

Notwithstanding summer’s crowds, Santa Fe provides a gift of serenity. Artist Cajko describes the town as “the most inspirational place I’ve ever lived.” Another artist commented: “You don’t get transferred here--you’re here because you want to be.”

Art dealer Jan Isaacs returned to Santa Fe after four years in Los Angeles. She smiles wistfully. “I missed not seeing the sky and the stars.” When she was 17, restaurant hostess Francine Drews “couldn’t wait to leave Santa Fe.” Thirty-five years later, she’s back and vows she’ll never leave again.

James Reed, the general manager of the 116-room La Posada de Santa Fe, searched half a lifetime before discovering the rainbow. As a vice president for the Marriott Corp., he traveled to exotic destinations around the world--the South Seas and Singapore and Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong. Finally, he found Santa Fe--and he’s home. For keeps.

Betty Eagan, a widow with four youngsters, turned west from Cleveland. Like others, she was searching for her place in the sun. It eluded her in Tucson. And Phoenix. But Santa Fe was different. For nearly 25 years she has operated Rancho Encantado, a guest resort eight miles north of the city.

Handsome and gray-haired, she is described by her son John as “a cross between everyone’s mother and John Wayne.” Indeed, Wayne vacationed at Rancho Encantado, as have dozens of other celebrities: Maria Callas, Henry Fonda, Anthony Quinn, Robert Redford, Jimmy Stewart, Gene Kelly, Prince Rainier and Princess Grace, the Duke and Duchess of Bedford, Britain’s Princess Anne, E.G. Marshall, Trevor Howard, Johnny Cash, Frank Capra, Jason Robards and Dustin Hoffman.

Their pictures, along with others, grace a wall in the lounge with its weathered wooden cross and deep sofas spread before a fireplace. Encantado sprawls across 160 acres, featuring adobe and territorial-style casitas with wood-burning kivas. And there’s a cantina where guests gather to snack on Tex-Mex chili, tamales and Frito pies. Rooms with beamed ceilings and Navajo rugs look out on rolling hills with juniper and golden chamisa. Guests join breakfast rides across the arroyos and into Santa Fe National Park with its groves of aspen and a peacefulness that is carried by the wind.

In town, others gather at Pat and Louise Walter’s cheerful little Grant Corner Inn (circa 1905), a three-story, country-style B&B; only two blocks from the plaza where breakfast and a weekend brunch features cheese pancakes filled with sauteed apples and cream, sopapillas, stuffed French toast, huevos rancheros, poached pears with raspberry sauce, eggs with asparagus and other delights. Built for a wealthy ranching family, the inn provides 11 guest rooms appointed with antique armoires, brass and four-poster beds and quilts for Santa Fe’s chilly nights.

In a departure from the norm, afternoon tea is served on the veranda and in the lobby of the old territorial-style St. Francis Hotel on Don Gaspar Ave.--finger sandwiches, scones and pastries. Only a block off the plaza, this small, 81-room hotel provides a sense of the Old West with its brass and iron beds, cherrywood and marble antiques, porcelain pedestal sinks and lofty ceilings.

Playwright Neil Simon retires to one of the adobes at La Posada de Santa Fe. With the chill of evening, he touches a match to pinon logs in a beehive fireplace and soon the night is fragrant. Casitas at La Posada de Santa Fe are spread across six acres near the plaza. This is Old World Santa Fe, with a fireplace that blazes in the garden and a restaurant that shares an old home where visitors gather for cocktails in Victorian parlors.

Others choose the peaceful little Inn on the Alameda, which is described by locals as “Santa Fe cozy.” With only 38 rooms, the Alameda provides a sense of Southwest living sans the crowds that swell Santa Fe’s larger hotels.

The Pueblo-style Inn at Loretto is only a block from the plaza, while La Fonda faces the old square. As Santa Fe’s oldest hotel, La Fonda appeals to the traveler intent on being in the heart of old Santa Fe.

Like Rancho Encantado, the Bishop’s Inn occupies a peaceful plot a short drive outside of town. The 1,000-acre resort with its horses, tennis and swimming pool was the private retreat of Archbishop Jean Baptiste Lamy, who was immortalized in Willa Cather’s “Death Comes to the Archbishop.” Trees planted by Franciscan fathers during the 16th Century still bear fruit, and a chapel built by Archbishop Lamy remains the centerpiece of this unusual resort in the Sangre de Cristo foothills.

With the exodus of summer visitors, Santa Fe turns to thoughts of the holidays when the village is bright with farolitos (candles in little sand-filled bags) that cast a glow from the rooftops of ancient buildings and the paths of homes. Joseph and Mary seek refuge at inns near the plaza and the voices of carolers are heard through the streets of Old Santa Fe--while the magic of Christmas sheds its warmth among old adobes in the peace of a wintry night.