Chasing Chile in the Land of Enchantment, Part 2
A Road Trip Through Southern New Mexico: Hatch Chile, Aliens, Bat Caves, and Sand Dunes
I have a problem. Okay, not a real problem, but a very food writer/travel addict kind of problem. If you’ve caught the travel bug, you probably know what I’m talking about: when it comes time to pick your next destination, do you go back to the places you know and love, deepening your relationship with the familiar, or do you chase something new?
People often ask me, “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?” And I rarely give a straight answer. I like (almost) everywhere I go. I find most places interesting, even tiny pueblos in the New Mexican desert. And the places I haven’t been? I want to go there too.
Which is why flying from Buenos Aires to New Mexico every year isn’t exactly convenient… but I go. Because if I had to answer that question, it’s here. New Mexico. On the road with my dad.
Arthur is almost 85. He’s been exploring and photographing New Mexico since before I existed, and now I follow him down the same highways, stopping for chile and cloud formations, sleeping in motels, eating in diners. He drives and pulls over when the light is right to take pictures. I snack, navigate, people-watch, and snap iPhone photos of great signage.
We chat about it all: family, photography, philosophy, life, landscapes. Sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. That’s the thing about road trips: when you’re stuck in a car with someone for that long, things come up, issues get worked out, quality time happens—whether you like it or not. (And I like it.)
This is Part 2 of our New Mexico series. Part 1 took us through the north: Taos, Chimayó, Abiquiú, O’Keeffe Country. Now we’re heading south: Roswell, Carlsbad Caverns, White Sands, Hatch, Truth or Consequences, Silver City, and a few weird, wacky, wonderful stops in between.
This isn’t a traditional travel guide. It’s a road diary. An appreciation note to chile, signage, early morning diners, and the offbeat beauty of Southern New Mexico. Whoever came up with “The Land of Enchantment” was really onto something.
P.S. If you're here for Buenos Aires content, don’t worry. I’ll be back to ranting about food in Argentina for the next post.
Highway 285 to Roswell
We started at Trader Joe’s in Santa Fe to fill up the “food box” (what my dad calls a cardboard box filled with car snacks), then hit the road. From there, we drove southeast on US-285, cutting past old Route 66 and through the kind of towns you could miss if you blink—but luckily, I’m a sucker for great signage and will make my dad pull over or turn around for anything remotely interesting. And so will he.
Like the abandoned house he insisted on showing me in Encino, one he’d photographed years ago. He gets out of the car and casually walks inside (!!), ignoring the big “POSTED: No Trespassing” sign, and points to the graffiti on the walls. I get a bad feeling instantly and want to get out of there. The place gave me the creeps.
As we pull back onto the road, I spot a vending machine in someone’s driveway, and then what looks like a Chucky mask mounted on a fence, surrounded by CDs. I tell my dad to slow down so I can snap a drive-by photo from the car. Just as I’m taking it, I hear a voice: “HELLO.” I jump.
I still hadn’t shaken the creepy feeling from the abandoned house and now there is a woman on the porch watching me. I panic. Caught red-handed photographing her fence. I blurt out, “Oh! I just really liked this mask and wanted to show my friend??” (Not my best work.) She pauses, then says, “You can have it if you want.” NO THANK YOU, THIS IS HOW THE HORROR MOVIE STARTS. “Have a nice day!” I wave frantically. “Dad, hit it.”
The road is lined with billboards that remind me I’m far from home: gun shops, pawn shops, weed shops, personal injury lawyers, “Jesus Saves” in big block letters. As we pass Trump signs and United States of America flags, I’m reminded what a bubble I live in, and get curious about what kind of media people are actually consuming out here to live in such a different reality from my own.
So I start scanning through the radio: country, gospel, a Spanish cumbia station, and conservative talk radio. That’s mostly what we listen to on these drives, since my dad’s old Toyota 4Runner only has the radio, a CD player, and a handful of very random CDs. (He hadn’t discovered Spotify yet, I introduced him later, and it blew his mind.)
In Vaughn, “The Crossroads of New Mexico,” we stop so my dad can take photos of an abandoned gas station. I wander off to admire some old motel signs and a dilapidated house spray-painted with the word “BANDIDO.”
We drive alongside a freight train for a while. A long one. The containers are stamped with familiar names: Walmart, Amazon, FedEx. My dad says they’re probably coming from the ports in California, heading east across the country. It hits me: I’m watching consumption in motion. All the stuff we order without thinking, inching its way across the desert. I’d never really paid attention to how things get to us. But here they are, car after car after car, quietly hauling everything we think we need.
UFO’s in Roswell
I’ve never even seen the TV show Roswell, but I figured the town had to be strange enough to warrant a detour. And it did not disappoint. The second you arrive, it’s aliens… everywhere. Alien billboards, alien street lamps, alien statues, alien eyes peering out of gas station windows. The Holiday Inn is UFO-themed. Even the McDonald’s looks like a spaceship. They’ve fully committed to the bit. (In case you didn’t know, Roswell’s claim to fame is a supposed UFO crash back in 1947, which the U.S. government insists was just a weather balloon.)
I needed a bathroom break, so UFO McDonald’s felt like the move. Inside, it reminded me of the McDonald’s of yesteryear (the ‘80s and ‘90s), when playplaces felt like mini amusement parks: astronaut Ronald McDonald flying overhead, Grimace floating in a giant Coke cup, a rocket ship hanging from the ceiling that read “Out of this world fries!” A little blast of fast food nostalgia from when McDonald’s was fun, before it turned sad and sterile. I hadn’t eaten McDonald’s in years, but when in Roswell… I got some “out of this world” fries.
We keep cruising down the main drag, which is full-on kitsch: like a tourist trap, except without the tourists. The town feels weirdly empty. Just a bunch of aliens, a “Space Out Smoke” weed dispensary, and souvenir shops selling “I Was Probed in Roswell” t-shirts I now regret not buying.
The Bat Caves
We arrive in Carlsbad and check into a motel, with just enough time to make it to Carlsbad Caverns National Park before sunset. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the park is home to more than 119 caves hidden beneath the Chihuahuan Desert, including its star attraction, Carlsbad Cavern, a massive limestone chamber deep underground.
Tonight, we’re here for the Bat Flight Program. I remember doing it as a kid. Every evening, just before sunset, hundreds of thousands of Brazilian free-tailed bats stream out of the cave in a massive swirling cloud, off to feast on insects. It’s totally silent, no cameras, no phones, no music, just a ranger giving a short TED Talk about bats, and then the collective hush as everyone waits. When they finally squeak and pour out, it’s wild.
The next morning, I wake up to tapping on the window. My dad’s outside in the Super 8 Motel parking lot, pointing to the sky: a double rainbow sunrise. He’s marching between semi trucks, camera in hand, while I figure out which diner we’re going to hit up for breakfast.
By 7:10 a.m., we’re pulling into the Pecos River Cafe. This is my favorite time of day on these trips: early diner breakfast hours, when the regulars roll in and the town starts to show its face. We’re surrounded by big-ass shiny trucks in the parking lot, most with Texas plates. Inside, it’s all men (aside from the waitresses)—burly, bearded, trucker hats, wraparound sunglasses pushed up on their heads. They all kind of look the same. Oil and gas guys, probably.
I order my usual: two eggs over medium, hashbrowns, bacon, coffee. It’s nothing special, but it hits the spot. Because the food isn’t really the point. If you want to understand a place, really feel it, skip the museums and monuments. Go to a diner before 8 a.m., sit quietly, and watch the town wake up.
After breakfast, we return to the caverns. My dad takes the elevator, while I nibble on a Camino Pineapple Habanero gummy and hike the 1.25-mile natural entrance trail, the same one the bats flew out of the night before. The farther you go, the cooler it gets. At some point (probably right around when the edible hits) it stops feeling like a cave and starts feeling like another planet… or the set of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Jagged rock formations, dripping ceilings, walls that seem to breathe.
Inside, it’s massive—stalactites, stalagmites, and weird, wonderful formations that look like melted candles, ancient thrones, and those yappy Sesame Street aliens that go “Yip yip yip.” Some are phallic-looking, my dad points this out. I pretend not to hear him. Ew.
Fernando’s Tamales & Pistachioland
After the caverns, we’re hungry. I had already scoped out a few potential lunch spots—Mexican, Vietnamese, burgers—but one place stood out with great reviews: Fernando’s Tamales. Inside, the woman behind the counter greets me warmly. I order, and apparently pronounce tamales well enough for her to start chatting with me in Spanish. She asks where I’m from. I tell her I live in Argentina, and she lights up… no one from Argentina has ever been to the shop before.
Behind the counter, I spot a collection of bills from all over the world. Then I remember: my dad had saved a 50-peso bill from visiting me in Argentina over a decade ago. I told him it was worthless and tossed it in a random bag. I run out to the car, dig around, and—aha—it’s there. I bring it back inside. She holds it up like a trophy and asks to take a photo with me.
Order is up! Six red chile tamales, still warm, soft, spicy, wrapped in husks. Exactly what we needed for the ride. From there, we drive east, winding up through the Sacramento Mountains. It’s a scenic stretch—Cloudcroft, High Rolls Mountain Park—pine forests, elevation, sharp turns, a brief break from the flat, dry openness of the desert.
Then we descend into Alamogordo, where a giant sign welcomes us to McGinn’s PistachioLand, home of “all kinds of nuts.” I’m immediately obsessed. There’s a 30-foot pistachio statue—the world’s largest—and a full-on gift shop selling everything from pistachio brittle to pistachio wine to pistachio ice cream. We obviously need to stop for pistachio statue content and a cone.
White Sands
We finally made it—a big reason we came down south. White Sands National Park is one of my dad’s favorite places to photograph in New Mexico. I have vivid memories of family vacations here. We arrive in the late afternoon, aiming for that golden hour light.
The park sits in the Tularosa Basin, a stretch of 275 square miles that looks like snow but isn’t. It’s not white sand either. It’s gypsum. A mineral left behind millions of years ago when an ancient lake evaporated. Wind and water sculpted it into soft, rippling dunes, forming the largest gypsum dune field in the world.
The landscape feels otherworldly, stretching on forever. As the sun sets, the dunes shift from blinding white to lavender, peach, and gold. Arthur is in heaven.
We drive back into Alamogordo as the sky fades. On the way, we pass the White Sands Motel with its great neon sign and Mission Billiards dive bar and pool hall, which looks like it could be promising for people-watching, but we’re wiped. Instead, we go for something sweet: frozen custard at Caliche’s and bedtime.
Our Country Kitchen, Alamogordo
I wake up at 5:30 a.m. to find a figure sitting motionless in the corner of our motel room. For a split second, I think it’s a ghost. Nope—just my dad, meditating. Scares the shit out of me anyway. I pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. Thirty minutes later, he’s on the floor doing stretches like it’s totally normal. He’s no spring chicken, so honestly, whatever keeps the viejo upright.
By 6:30, we’re at Country Kitchen, a breakfast spot tucked inside what looks like someone’s house. The vibe is small-town country casual, a completely different crowd than yesterday’s diner. Inside, a bubbling fish tank gurgles in the corner, a full-on Betty Boop mural takes over one wall, and the place is cluttered with signs that say things like “Fish Stories Told Here” and “Many Have Eaten Here, Few Have Died.” A waitress in pigtails is training a new girl. “Fridays we wear pigtails,” she says, like it’s just the rule.
By 8:00 a.m., we’re back at White Sands. The light is flat and bright, and the dunes look like they’ve been reset overnight, almost airbrushed. Arthur is already off marching into the gypsum with his camera before I even shut the car door.
Green Chile Nation
White Sands was the main reason my dad wanted to drive south. Hatch was mine.
If you’ve ever had real New Mexico green chile, you’d understand. There’s chile… and then there’s Hatch green chile. It’s not a brand or a single variety, but an entire growing region along the Rio Grande, where high desert sun and sandy loam soil give the peppers their signature smoky-sweet flavor. When roasted, the smell is unmistakable: charred, savory, a little fruity. It’s the scent of New Mexico in late summer. (It’s also, officially, the state aroma.)
As we drive toward Hatch, we pass Las Cruces’ Big Chile Inn. Out front is a 47-foot-long chile sculpture that once held the record for “World’s Largest Chile Pepper.” A few miles later: pecan farms with hand-painted signs that read, “NO NUT PICKING! PECAN THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED.” No nut thieves! Note, from here you aren’t far away from El Paso, TX and Ciudad Juarez on the Mexican border, I wanted to take this detour but it wasn’t in the cards.
We roll into Hatch with the windows down and chile smoke wafting through the air. Hand-painted signs shout: “HOT DAMN CHILE,” “NOW ROASTING,” “WELCOME TO THE CHILE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.” Outside a trailer park, there’s a giant chile sculpture mounted to the roof.
Our lunch stop is Sparky’s, a local institution known for its green chile cheeseburgers and quirky charm. The whole place feels like a roadside museum of Americana, with a wild collection of oversized statues and vintage memorabilia—including a 30-foot-tall Uncle Sam, a giant chef, a robot, a piggy bank, and a Zoltar-style fortune teller straight out of Big. There’s also a life-size Native American figure holding a sign that says “FREE ADVICE”—so yeah, political correctness isn’t exactly the priority. Inside, it’s flannel shirts, cowboy hats, and strong opinions. All bizarre. All photogenic.
My dad and I split a green chile cheeseburger, fries, and a scoop of shockingly sweet coleslaw (plot twist: there’s pineapple in it). The burger is so good we consider getting a second, but we hold ourselves back. They give you a fortune cookie with your meal. Mine says: “You’re closer than you think.” I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds about right.
Truth or Consequences
My dad always said he wanted to take me to “Tea-or-see.”
“It’s a funky little town, you’re gonna love it,” he’d say. Turns out, he was talking about T or C, short for Truth or Consequences.
Originally called Hot Springs, the town changed its name in 1950 after a radio host named Ralph Edwards promised to air his show from the first town that renamed itself after his program. Hot Springs went for it, and the name stuck.
My dad comes here often, mostly for the hot springs. The town sits on a geothermal aquifer and is dotted with bathhouses, some modern, others delightfully unpolished. I had my heart set on Riverbend, a picturesque spot along the Rio Grande that friends had raved about. But my dad was skeptical. It sounded too “hoity-toity.” He prefers places with character, and has very specific bathhouse preferences. In the end, Riverbend was fully booked anyway (you have to reserve way in advance), so we landed at the Charles Motel. Humble, eclectic, a little dated, but charming. Just his style.
We drove out to Elephant Butte Reservoir for sunset, past low hills and strange rock formations—including the one that gives the place its name: a giant rock that allegedly looks like an elephant. It’s the largest lake in New Mexico, created by a dam built over a century ago to tame the Rio Grande.
On the way, a real roadrunner darted across the road. Fast, wild, cartoonishly perfect.
And yes, I’m mildly ashamed to admit I didn’t realize roadrunners were real until that moment.
We considered Los Arcos Steak & Lobster for dinner—a local spot that’s been around since 1970. Because nothing says “New Mexico desert” like surf n’ turf, right? But my stomach was off, and seafood felt like a risky move before a long drive. So instead: quick mosey around town, hot bath, early sleep.
The next morning, we hit up Passion Pie Café for breakfast. Cozy, cluttered, the kind of place with mismatched mugs, handwritten signs, and tempting pastries behind glass. Obviously, I couldn’t leave without some pie to go. Because when a place has “pie” in the name, you’d be an idiot not to order a slice.
A Tranquilbuzz in Silver City
We made our way to Silver City. A lot of history, and a solid mix of old-school cowboys and old-guard hippies. Billy the Kid supposedly spent time here. So did a bunch of silver miners back in the late 1800s, when the town boomed.
These days, it’s a college town (Western New Mexico University) with an artsy streak, every other storefront is a gallery or a shop selling crystals, incense, or both. We wandered around town and ended the night at Jalisco Café, a family-run New Mexican restaurant.
The next morning, we grabbed coffee at Tranquilbuzz, a name that sounds like a weed strain but is actually a café with mismatched chairs, old hippies talking politics, and the smell of strong coffee beans. My kind of place. I bought a hat. (Love me some merch.) If we didn’t have to hit the road, we probably would have stuck around for lunch at Iron Door BBQ, but alas the life on the road! Gotta keep moving.
From there, we drove into the Gila National Forest, nearly three million acres of rugged wilderness. I hiked up to the Gila Cliff Dwellings while the viejo stayed behind to take photos. The trail’s short but steep, and once you get up there, it’s surreal: a cluster of ancient homes carved into the cliffs over 700 years ago by the Mogollon people.
As we made our way back north, we passed through Datil, Magdalena, and Socorro. I really wanted to stop in Pie Town, because if a place is called Pie Town, how do you not go? But Arthur had reached his limit. He was ready to be done. So we skipped it. My dad points out the Bosque del Apache wildlife refuge, and how we need to go there next time for birdwatching. Noted.
We rolled back into Santa Fe with 800 more miles on the odometer, a camera full of photos, and an empty food box rattling in the backseat.
I never know how many more of these trips we’ll get—which is probably why I savor them so much. But for now, the viejo’s still going strong. He says he’ll ride this pony ’til it collapses. And I’ll keep riding shotgun.
BONUS TRACK
As for the next trip? My dad’s already planning it. A three-day mosey through San Juan County: Chaco Canyon, Bisti Badlands, Angel Peak, Kutz Canyon. “It’ll blow your mind,” he says. “You’ll think you’re on the moon.” I’m in.
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