Pumas, Patagonia and the border-crossing super park that never was

One of my favourite parts of Argentine Patagonia is the Pinturas Canyon. 

On the edges of the canyon is the UNESCO Heritage site Cueva de las Manos, Patagonia's most important and impressive collection of ancient hand art. A languid river forms a lush ribbon through the valley, where my guide and I once found an obsidian arrowhead that has been lying in the dust for thousands upon thousands of years. We had a swim in the river, ate a picnic on its banks and hiked a beautiful trail. Guanacos roamed the fertile grasslands, Andean condors swooped from the steep rock walls. 

We saw four people all day, all of them at the cave.

Why am I telling you this in a story about pumas? Well, where we are matters. A lot. We are across the border from Chile's newly minted Patagonia National Park, a protected reserve which includes the Valle Chacabuco - given to the state by Doug and Kris Tompkins as part of the largest private land donation in history. That part is key - the Chilean side is protected by law. The Argentine side is not, and may never be.

Look at the map below. The large green area on the left is Chile's Patagonia National Park - three distinct private reserves joined together in 2018. 

To the right of the border (the red dotted line), you'll see fragmented pockets of green: Argentina's protected lands. The idea was to join them into one super border-crossing national park to rival Torres del Paine in scale, variety and beauty.

The first challenge for our proposed super park is land ownership. The non-green parts of the map are divided between huge estancias, and the current landowners have no desire to sell. This isn't simply a case of packing up and finding a new house - it's a complete change of lifestyle and a departure from the sheep-rearing industry that has defined generations.

What's more, one of the most surprising things about your travels in Argentine Patagonia is that it’s quite normal to have an entire canyon or an extinct volcanic cone on your land. Imagine that in rural Shropshire. Such quirks date back to the start of the 20th century, when the Argentine government first began parcelling up vast plots in a belated response to very informal and spontaneous land-grabbing. If your garden came with a gorge, it's yours.

Then there's the land itself. If you drive through the 'brown' area and cross into Chile at Paso Roballos, you'll notice a dramatic change. The Andes give the Chilean side protection from the wind and strip moisture from Pacific clouds. Along with extensive rewilding efforts, the climate sustains regenerated grassland, deep blue lakes and flowing rivers. Wildlife abounds. I even saw an endangered Huemul deer on the way to the border - a red-letter moment.

As you can see from the below photo, on the arid Argentine steppe - whipped by fierce winds - vegetation is sparse and crouched to the ground. Salt lagoons form in winter but often dry up before spring is out, meaning flamingos lead a nomadic life always hunting fresh water. This is great for us travellers because, in one day, you have such incredible variety and vastness laid out before you. But it's difficult to imagine such an Eden forming here, even if you remove the sheep and allow the degraded soil to recover.

That’s not to say there isn’t wildlife in these parts, but it’s questionable whether they were ever here on the abundant scale possible in Chile.

The cultural divide is most evident in how Chile and Argentina approach human-puma conflict.

While pumas typically avoid humans, conflicts arise when they prey on livestock. There has long been a culture in Patagonia of shooting them.

In Chile, pumas are now protected by law. Authorities have implemented programs involving education and compensation to farmers for livestock losses. Some ranchers have swapped guns for cameras, earning sustainable revenue through ecotourism. Pumas now actively contribute to Chile's tourism industry, especially in Torres del Paine. None of this is to say illegal killings don't happen - but it paints a picture of a country sympathetic to living alongside them.

In Argentina, laws are fragmented, varying from province to province. In many parts, pumas are still seen as a plague, and ranchers are rewarded for killing them. Chubut province was paying a bounty of around $25-30 USD per killing. According to a 2017 study, an estancia owner loses roughly $3,400 a year to puma attacks.

What would you do if that money was being taken out of your pocket annually? It's not easy. But where are the solutions?

Argentina feels stuck. It can't outlaw puma killings without compensating farmers, and it can't generate tourism revenue without the sort of masterplan Chile has been chipping away at for years.

Here's the thing. With the wool industry at its peak, pumas were once all but extinct on the Argentine steppe. As synthetic materials caused that industry to unravel, humans began to leave. As more areas returned to their natural state, pumas returned too - reclaiming over 90% of their original territory in just ten years.

That speaks to the power of land protection. But it also suggests pumas will be just fine without further intervention, so long as mass immigration doesn't happen again.

You'll see the progress for yourself: your hotel here is owned by Rewilding Argentina. There are guanacos and rheas outside the window. A puma and her cubs once walked by the front door. You genuinely could very well see a puma when out and about with your guide. Visitors like you can follow trails like I did into unspoilt landscapes, and in doing so contribute to an economy based around wildlife protection.

Joining everything into one super park would supercharge tourism. A marketeer's dream. But would it make your visit more special? Would it increase puma numbers? Would it benefit local communities?

Selfishly, we want to keep these parts of Patagonia as our little secret. It really does feel like a privilege to be out exploring the wilds with such a wonderful guide as Guido. We can foresee a future where tourism thrives here - but balancing that with nature's needs is the real challenge. So I'm in no real rush to see the super park materialise. I don't care what you call it, this little pocket of Patagonia is already special enough.