Hunted to treasured: One woman’s mission to protect Pumas in Chile’s remote southern pampas

It’s still dark when we head towards the Land Cruiser 4WD. I’ve been told not to expect too much from this dawn puma safari—I’ve only got one crack at seeing them and, well, wild animals are capricious. It’s worth the early start though, if only to catch sunrise over the impressive towers of Torres del Paine National Park.

Before I can even buckle in, guide Daniela Ávalos Berner exclaims, “There’s been a sighting! A mother and three cubs.” Though I was quietly confident on waking that we’d have some luck, I wasn’t expecting it to happen this fast. Vamos! My fellow passengers, Lydia and Phillip, are similarly jolted out of any pre-dawn sluggishness—we’re suddenly wide-eyed, releasing binoculars and assorted cameras from cases while sliding ourselves into more layers in the startling chill. It may be summer, but the cold bites mercilessly in the sunless hours this far south.

Daniela starts the engine. She’s one of a team of scientists and guides at Estancia Cerro Guido, a ranch on the outskirts of the national park in Chile’s southernmost Magallanes region. At almost 100,000 hectares, it’s the largest estancia in the area, started in 1906. Some 300 sheep were first introduced to Patagonia 30 years earlier, and by 1930, there were two million, resulting in the displacement of the nomadic Aónikenk (or Tehuelche) peoples in the process—that’s another story entirely. Since 2019, the ranch has been doubling up as a boutique hotel, its restaurant offering unfettered views of the mountain range, giving guests a literal window onto the famous towers of Paine themselves.

Despite the mesmerizing landscape, it’s the estancia’s wildlife program, Fundación Cerro Guido, that’s now taking center stage. Founder and Executive Director Pía Vergara, a professional photographer from Santiago, felt compelled to get involved in a big local issue—puma preying on livestock and being shot as a result.

Building her local team slowly, she’s now partnered with Panthera, a global wild-cat charity. And efforts have been quickly ramped up, making use of dedicated trackers, high-resolution camera traps, and GPS collars to monitor behaviors.

It’s hard to comprehend if you’re not from southern Chile (even Santiagueñas from the capital, like Pía, are a world apart), but until 1980 it was legal, government-sanctioned and financially advantageous to hunt, kill and decapitate puma.

As we drive carefully on the unsealed road, Daniela checks in with lead puma tracker, Diego Cornejo. We’re relieved to hear that mother and cubs are still there, though partially hidden now in the obscurity of an adjacent field. Turning off all illumination, we slide in behind the two other vehicles, their passengers already spilled out onto the roadside, keeping watch.

We’re told not to make any sound. Pumas have had more than a century to fear humankind, so even the crunch of footsteps or gentle clunk of a car door will scatter them. And the blinking lights and beeps of cameras are strictly forbidden too. Distant snow-dusted peaks are the only beacon, so we adjust our eyes and scour the vegetation. Talking in whispers, we greet Diego and the other friendly strangers we cannot yet see.

Considering it took Pía five years to glimpse her first puma, we’re feeling rather fortunate. It was initially Pía’s passion for photography that sent her on repeated visits to the region. But the desire to digitally capture the felines transformed into something more serious as time passed unsuccessfully. She realized that their elusivity had more to do with local tensions than the typically fickle nature of wildlife.

It’s hard to comprehend if you’re not from southern Chile (even Santiagueñas from the capital, like Pía, are a world apart), but until 1980 it was legal, government-sanctioned and financially advantageous to hunt, kill and decapitate puma.

The presentation of a head would result in the promised USD$100 fee, and one estancia’s records from the 1920s declare that 85 were killed in a single season. In fact, it’s still legal in Argentina—and sadly acknowledged that outside the boundaries of Cerro Guido they’re probably being hunted here too. “This region is so big. Who would know?” foundation scientist, Solange Sabelle, admits to me later.

It’s a sobering thought. And though it might seem cruel to those disconnected from the context of this place, livelihoods in this inhospitable part of South America still depend on farming. Any threat to livestock could result in an estancia going under—a real “matter of survival” for some, says Sol. With pumas the apex predator, it was never going to lead to a harmonious co-existence.

Pía however, convinced Cerro Guido’s owners to stop killing the cats, working with them to hire local legend and longtime hunter, Mirko Utrovicich. He admits to being taught to hate pumas as a young boy—even securing government contracts over his 30-year career to hunt and kill guanaco, the beautiful, skittish camelids that are another big draw for tourists (and prey for the wild cats, especially so before the introduction of sheep).

Understanding that gaucho and estancia traditions hold strong—“It’s culture that is hard to change, it’s so deep in your bones” says Sol—Pía was savvy enough to know she needed Mirko for his tracking skills first and foremost. Then, later, he might help change hearts and minds.

On the summit, we have breakfast, and Diego and Dani speak admiringly of Pia’s work as they make tea. There’s a reverence in their comments that’s repeated by everyone working at Cerro Guido. Pía is universally admired—even loved, I’d say—for her singlemindedness that has brought them all together.

And it worked. Mirko has given up hunting, employed by the ranch primarily to work with sheep dogs who are a fundamental part of the solution. When I visit, Mirko is away with head gaucho, Viktor Sharp, taking the herd to new pastures (the foundation’s data even helps gauchos to know the best time to move sheep), but his impact is palpable.

After experiments with Maremma and Pyrenean Mountain dogs, the team has discovered that leaving some with the flocks at night keeps predators at bay. They’re also using Foxlights, a device that emits flashes to mimic torch light.

These combined efforts are reaping rewards. The puma population is healthy, and the team is beginning to understand their personalities and distinguish between the families. Farmers are learning how to co-exist with wildlife; which brings added benefits to the ecosystems, as well as significant tourist income from visiting wildlife enthusiasts. It took years, but now when the foundation holds meetings to explain their latest data, local people not only turn up; they engage.

As the first moments of daybreak transform the landscape, we follow Diego’s truck. It’s anyone’s guess how he’s maintaining visuals on these sandy-hued cats, camouflaged against the now glowing pampas. Knowing the drill, we exit the vehicle once more, and with golden light flooding the plains, there’s a moment where the sight of the iconic towers makes us forget what we’re here for.

I’ve been to Torres del Paine a few times, including trekking the W Circuit, but this view never fails to create awe. Looming large, they’re the centerpiece in an already competitively majestic setting. But Diego’s not distracted, up on the side of his truck, locking in on our puma family. They’re still a way off for a decent photo, but I track them through my lens, the cubs appearing between grasses to jump and frolic, the warm morning light imbuing the scene with extra magic. Guides and guests are equally giddy.

After they disappear into the brush, we drive up to condoreras, a high vantage point that’s home to a puma carretera, or trail—its camera trap capturing regular activity. On the summit, we have breakfast, and Diego and Dani speak admiringly of Pia’s work as they make tea.

There’s a reverence in their comments that’s repeated by everyone working at Cerro Guido. Pía is universally admired—even loved, I’d say—for her singlemindedness that has brought them all together. On our return, receptionist Melissa Molina informs me that Pía is here tonight, and I should definitely seek her out.

She’s sitting with her team after dinner and I’m invited to join them. Pía is as charming as expected. She first asks about my travels in Chile, and it eventually emerges that I taught her now-adult nephew for many years in Santiago in my former life as a Head of English—and I even know her children…

We’re both flabbergasted. She invites me to return again, long enough next time to hopefully photograph the puma at closer quarters. It took Pía two years to do that (with a much loved male called Mufasa who, as a cub, had little fear of humans) so I won’t get my hopes up. But I’ve long shared her obsession with these magnificent animals, and I’m thrilled to have an extra connection with her.

We meet again the next morning, and I find out more about the program, including how puma scat is regularly tested for cortisone to see if tourism is creating additional stress. So far, so good. She also shows me a photo of 11 or so female pumas together – “People had always considered them solitary until then—but with so many killed before, how could anyone really know their behaviors?”

Pía is upfront about why they’ve been so successful here. “Conservation in the region just has to be more financially viable than paying hunters.” And it’s clearly paying off, with tourism playing a major part – they’re even renovating to create more guest rooms for next year. Her personal investment is key too. “We have a big group coming in from South Africa tomorrow,” she tells me, “and I’ll be guiding them myself.”

I’m not surprised that Pía has been asked for personally—she’s become something of a star attraction for the estancia. Familiar with all the puma, Pía has seen one cat, Raya, have several litters of cubs; she even knows the felines’ due dates. And of course, she knows exactly which female my group came into contact with yesterday—“It was Collarcita!” she confirms—and the age and number of cubs. “These are pumas I’ve come to know over the years, so the bond is special.”

I realize then that it’s Pía’s tireless work that made it possible for me to see pumas—and that it had very little, if anything at all, to do with luck.

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