Plentiful Gifts of Winter Fill the Santa Fe Air

In the early hours that winter morning, Santa Fe was still asleep under a thin blanket of snow. Huge flakes had fallen in the night, and now the wooden fence posts were patched with white.

As I crossed the old Plaza, the snow crunched under my boots. It was the only sound except for the purr of a lean cat curled up on an adobe doorstep at the Palace of the Governors, a remnant of the Spanish conquest almost 400 years ago.

Winter is my favorite season in this high corner of New Mexico. The air is crisp and dry, the sky an emboldened blue. Pale adobe walls are slashed with the crimson of ristras , those fragrant strands of ripened chili peppers.

Santa Fe’s distinctive adobes are outlined in gold: Flat rooftops and crooked lanes glow with the traditional candles-in-a-paper-bag, which are called farolitos north of Albuquerque and luminarias to the south.

The plentiful art galleries, both in the heart of Santa Fe and along the trail of Canyon Road, have customers but not crowds. Museums can be almost hushed.

Summer lines are long gone from the popular restaurants such as The Shed, a warren of adobe rooms in a hidden plaza behind Palace Avenue. The Shed serves only lunch, but locals know they must arrive by 11:15 a.m. in July to avoid a wait.

In January you can take your time over hearty enchiladas wrapped in blue-corn tortillas, and perhaps a side order of the hominy dish called posole . A pinon log burns slowly in the corner hearth, and the whole world seems mellow.

When the Glenn Green Gallery opened on that winter morning, I stomped the snow from my boots and stepped inside. There was no one else in the large, white-walled room, and yet it was far from empty. The haunting presence of mighty sculptures beat like a faraway drum.

Two Native American women, swathed in blankets, leaned close to each other in a white Carrara marble sculpture called “Secrets.” You could almost hear their whispers.

I circled a six-foot-tall bronze sculpture of a dark green robe held around a proud figure whose face was hooded in shadows. Its name: “Forever.” Its price tag: $125,000.

These serene Indians and spirits, with their wind-swept skirts and robes, stand in dignity, as if gathered for a tribal ceremony. They are the work of Allan Houser, a 76-year-old Apache who studied in Europe on Guggenheim fellowships and is called the father of contemporary American Indian sculpture.

When I left the gallery, cold air hit my face and I saw that the real world of the Plaza was still just a block away.

My next stop was across the street: The Contemporary Craftsman, a gallery rich in exotic woods, modern silver and enamels as vivid as a sunset.

I have always found irresistible gifts here: aspen walking sticks, letter openers of mountain mahogany, slim bracelets of gold wire. I also have found spectacular items that I can neither use nor afford. Once it was a magnificent cherrywood loom, about 10 feet across and of satin sheen. This time it was a cradle of African walnut and zebrawood, which rocked in a spindled stand.

In the afternoon, as the bright mountain sun began melting the snow, I drove south along the Old Santa Fe Trail for a couple of miles and then uphill to Camino Lejo, a cultural cul-de-sac that is home to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, the Wheelwright Museum of American Indian Art, and the most ebullient museum imaginable--the Museum of International Folk Art.

The Girard Collection--106,000 pieces of folk art from around the world--is arranged in a vast, simple space of the museum. Dazzling colors beckon in all directions; whole villages of characters from Peru, Mexico, Greece and Indonesia cast enchantment. I have wandered for hours among these whimsical toys and treasures, as if I were circling the base of the world’s largest Christmas tree.

By the time I left the folk art museum that afternoon, the sky had begun turning purple. Daylight was fading as if on a rheostat. Clouds pressed down and flattened the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo range. I felt exhilarated by this sure sign of snow.

I know that by going in winter I miss the Santa Fe Opera season, the Chamber Music Festival and the rollicking Indian Market of August, which more than doubles the town’s population. I know there will be fewer Native American vendors spreading their wares on the covered sidewalk by the Plaza. I know I will have to put up with silence at times, except for the bells at St. Francis cathedral and the odd Spanish guitar.

But as long as the air is clean and cold, the chilies are hot and the pinon logs keep burning in the corner adobe hearth, I know I can take it.