Saving the Yosemite of South America
Text by Julian Smith | Photographs by Stephen Alvarez
The trail to the Cochamó Valley climbs relentlessly through the dense, fern-filled, temperate rainforest of southern Chile. In some places it’s a ladder of muddy roots; in others, a shoulder-deep trench carved by teams of pack horses passing through over the years. Brief glimpses of the Cochamó River are visible through the trees.
Bernardita Ortiz, a journalist with the local conservation group Puelo Patagonia, identifies a lively chirping in the trees as a pair of Magellanic woodpeckers, the largest woodpecker species in South America.
“From my first visit to Cochamó two years ago, I knew there was something special about the place,” she says, watching two bright red heads hammering their beaks against a mossy tree trunk. “Every visit has made me feel more connected to the landscape and the community.”
The birds fly off, and Ortiz leads the way up the trail.
A mile later, we come across a group of “arrieros,” or local mountain horsemen. They often transport visitors’ bags but today they’re improving a stretch of trail with a rough boardwalk of freshly sawn planks.
After we scramble for four hours, including a final river crossing on a hand-drawn cable car, the trail leaves the trees. It’s like stepping through green curtains onto a vast sunlit stage. Three-thousand-foot granite walls rise on both sides of the valley, punctuated by glacier-fed waterfalls and a circling condor. It’s as if Yosemite Valley were cleared of people and dropped in the middle of a Pacific Northwest rainforest.
This is the Cochamó Valley, the crown jewel of a vast wilderness area known as Puchegüín. Roughly half the size of Rhode Island’s land area and still wild, this landscape of water and rock has been under threat of large-scale development for more than three decades. There were plans to dam the rivers for hydropower, build roads and develop the area. That’s when a group of community members, local adventure guides and others decided to mobilize to save the place they love.
The mountains where the Cochamó River and Puelo River meet the Pacific Ocean have always been remote. Even today, it can take days on foot or horseback to travel between the scattered farms and ranches, some of which are owned by descendants of the original settlers who arrived more than a century ago. Today, a few hundred residents live a mostly traditional lifestyle focused on crops and livestock—and, more recently, tourists—with one eye always on the ever-changing Patagonian weather. (Another 4,000 or so people live in neighboring communities.)
Puchegüín stretches from the Pacific up to the Argentine border in the Andes, surrounded by more than 1.6 million hectares of protected areas. It’s home to entire intact ecosystems that serve as important carbon sinks and provide shelter for threatened and endangered species, such as the tiny monito del monte, a nocturnal marsupial that weaves nests of moss and grass in old-growth trees and under rocks.
Two rivers meet in the Rio Puelo Valley, where they eventually flow into a nearby fjord.
More than anything, this is a landscape defined by water; one of the meanings of the word “Cochamó” in the indigenous Mapudungun language is “where the waters meet.” Puchegüín protects 170 miles of some of the last large, free-flowing rivers in southern Chile—the Puelo, Manso and Cochamó—in an unbroken system that runs from glaciers in the Andes Mountains and headwaters to tidal estuaries, sustaining a full spectrum of ecosystems and communities that depend on that connectivity.
For decades, the region’s rivers have drawn fishers and boaters, and its glacier-scoured cliffs have attracted big-wall rock climbers. So when local activists organized to block the construction of several dams and roads in the Cochamó Valley in the 2000s and 2010s, it’s no surprise that climbers and outdoor enthusiasts played a key role in the grassroots movement.
“We didn’t really know what we were doing at first,” says Rodrigo Condeza, an outdoor guide who helped organize the initial opposition made up of locals. “It was our first time doing activism.”
Novice or not, their efforts led to the 2009 declaration of the entire Cochamó River basin as one of Chile’s first water-flow reserves, making it off-limits to development. But the fight for Puchegüín’s landscape had just begun. A $400 million hydroelectric project on the nearby Puelo River was proposed in 2011, backed by a wealthy Chilean industrialist.
It would be the largest of its kind in the country, with 40 miles of power lines supported by 500-foot electrical towers. As part of the development, the industrialist bought up 325,000 acres of land from hundreds of local families. His long-term vision for the property, which has a 50-mile border with Argentina, included paved roads and other development.
In response, Condeza and fellow activists in 2013 founded Puelo Patagonia, a nonprofit organization bringing together an unlikely coalition of tour operators, climbers, backpackers and other recreationists in a regional campaign to stop the project.
“Our goal was to transform threats into opportunities,” says José Claro, a commercial engineer who joined Puelo Patagonia’s board and later became its president. Five years of meetings, marches and protests—some in kayaks, others on horseback—took the battle all the way to Chile’s Supreme Court. Puelo Patagonia used every available tool to shield the valley from multiple legal angles, including creating a nature sanctuary, locking in water rights for the river itself and securing a tourism interest zone designation that put sustainable economic development ahead of industrial use.
In 2017, Chile’s Supreme Court agreed that the hydroelectric project had failed to secure the proper environmental reviews, and, after eight more years of activism, the Puelo River basin was declared a free-flowing water reserve in 2025. After courts blocked the project, the owner put the property up for sale for $150 million. Seeing a unique opportunity, Puelo Patagonia reached out with an audacious offer of $50 million, which they would still have to raise. “It was a challenge at first, given the history,” Claro says about approaching a former adversary. “But after several meetings, we realized we needed each other.” The owner’s son, who had climbed in the Cochamó Valley, encouraged his father to sell to the group.
The tentative negotiations were boosted by a $15 million pledge from the Wyss Foundation. “When that email came, I was jumping and yelling all around the house,” says Andrés Diez Prat, executive director of Puelo Patagonia. In addition to this anchor gift, the project secured support from The Freyja Foundation and Patagonia, Inc. The Nature Conservancy joined the alliance to advise on negotiations, develop conservation strategy and assist in raising the rest of the final agreed-upon amount: $63 million, plus an additional $15 million for long-term management and protection.
The sheer size, biodiversity and freshwater resources of the property—named Fundo Puchegüín—were crucial for TNC’s decision to get involved, says Damian Rawoot, a habitat protection program advisor for TNC. “We saw this as a unique chance for ‘whole system’ protection, from summits,
glaciers and headwaters to the sea.” As a critical link in a chain of protected areas in Chile and Argentina, from the Andes Mountains to the southern tip of South America, Puchegüín functions as an essential corridor for species moving across the continent—migrating to higher elevations and over national borders —in response to human pressure and climate change.
Drawing on more than 20 years of managing the nearby Valdivian Coastal Reserve, TNC provided technical support on the transaction, conservation planning and local community engagement, while letting Puelo Patagonia lead the way. Years of listening sessions and planning workshops with local communities helped build trust and ensure that their priorities were incorporated into the property’s long-term conservation and management strategy. “We talk a lot at the Conservancy about ‘radical collaboration,’” says Juan José Donoso, director of the Conservancy’s Chile program. “Here it was time to walk the talk.”
From the outset, Puelo Patagonia was determined to make the process as transparent as possible, including the progress of the fundraising campaign, says Diez Prat.
“There are always people with different ideas and different knowledge—that’s our strength.”
On December 9, 2025, ownership and stewardship of Puchegüín was officially handed over to a new Chilean nonprofit, Fundación Conserva Puchegüín, founded by Puelo Patagonia, Freyja Foundation and TNC. The activists now had to learn some new roles: operators and land managers.
Visitors who make the 8-mile trek to Cochamó Valley have four rustic campgrounds along the river to choose from. Most come to hike or climb at places like the “anfiteatro,” set in a high side valley. The trail there is even steeper than the one to the main valley, winding past 100-foot waterfalls and massive alerce (Patagonian cypress) trees. Puchegüín is home to 10% of the world’s population of this endangered species, which can live for thousands of years.
Favian Sandoval, an arriero and climber, leads the way in rubber boots and a traditional “boina” beret. A fifth-generation resident of the gateway town of Cochamó, Sandoval has been involved from the start with the push to protect Puchegüín.
When he’s not boosting Lisa, his border collie, up steep spots in the trail, Sandoval identifies local birds like the Patagonian sierra finch and points out automatic camera traps strapped to trees.
The cameras are part of community-led wildlife monitoring efforts that have been integral to the management plan from the beginning. They have already captured images of endangered huemul, an Andean deer that appears on Chile’s national coat of arms. The deer had never been found this far north in the Chilean Patagonia before—more evidence of Puchegüín’s importance as a biological corridor.
The trail ends in a massive granite amphitheater with sheer cliffs on three sides. The whir of hummingbirds fills the air, and the voices of climbers echo from overhead. With many routes still unclimbed, it’s easy to see how the Cochamó has acquired near-mythic status among rock climbers around the world, who often call it the “Yosemite of South America.”
Sandoval has made first ascents here and climbed the big walls of Yosemite as well. The thought of what almost became Puchegüín’s fate—filled with roads, lodges and millions of visitors a year—makes him shudder.
“At least we’ve managed to keep the valley in trustworthy hands,” Sandoval says, setting out a bowl of water for Lisa in the sun. “Before, we were on our own. Now, with all these organizations on our side, we have a better chance.”
Now that Puchegüín’s advocates have become its managers, the next phase of even-harder work begins: shaping its future. In the first few years, the nonprofit foundation will put a science‑based master conservation and management plan in place, with the long-term goal of creating a new national park on at least 80% of the property. This will include the most sensitive and undisturbed areas, with minimal disturbance and strict protections.
The remainder of the property will be designated as multi-use conservation areas, with sustainable development for traditional community uses and low-impact tourism. Plans include upgrading trails and bridges, and improving a 60-mile trail network with campgrounds and mountain huts, to improve access for visitors and to shift tourism impacts away from the popular Cochamó Valley. The Conservancy will provide technical support and advice, but Puelo Patagonia will still lead efforts on the ground.
“Our vision is that tourism, developed the right way, will be a key long-term sustainable finance mechanism to protect Puchegüín and its communities’ ways of life,” Donoso says.
Puchegüín’s new operators will also have to figure out how to manage increased traffic, and how to balance the needs of stakeholders ranging from residents to corporate partners to international visitors. Community involvement will be just as critical for this new phase, TNC’s Rawoot says, which means keeping open lines of communication and following through on the agreements hammered out during those years of community meetings and workshops. “Continuing to build on the trusting relationships that we have developed is going to be the crux of this project being successful,” he says.
Preserving traditional Patagonian mountain culture has always been part of the effort to protect Puchegüín. Local community members will continue to be able to support themselves by farming and ranching. There will also be new opportunities in sustainable tourism, including jobs as guides and rangers. Many, like Sandoval, already do much of the horse-packing work that keeps the valley functioning. “They are the key eyes and ears on the ground,” says Rawoot.
Since 2020, a summer program has brought volunteers to live with rural families, helping them get ready for winter and providing companionship for older residents who often live in isolation. The program started when Puelo Patagonia learned that an 83-year-old man living alone in the mountains was facing his first Christmas without company. A single Instagram post asking for volunteers drew four applicants the first year; last year more than 1,000 people applied. “Feedback has been overwhelmingly positive on both sides,” Diez Prat says.
Everyone involved in Puchegüín hopes it can serve as a replicable model of bottom-up, community-centered conservation. The core lesson, Claro says, is that genuine collaboration is key. “If you believe in something and work hard, and are transparent and honest with yourself and your partners, nothing is impossible.”
Direct Connection
Tourism enables large, privately managed conservation projects in Chilean Patagonia
Tourism will be an important tool in making Puchegüín’s protection economically sustainable in the future. Indeed, ecotourism has a decades-long track record of success in Chilean Patagonia, where countless travelers come to hike, climb, fish, kayak or otherwise soak in the rugged beauty of this landscape.
“More than half of visitors say they come to Chile because of our nature,” says Juan José Donoso, TNC’s country director in Chile. Tourism can be a key long-term sustainable finance mechanism if it benefits local communities and the country, he says. “That way, protected areas can advance both conservation and development together.”
By partnering with tourism operators and local landowners throughout the region, TNC has built projects that can pay for themselves and keep ecosystems intact over time. This work ensures the money spent by visitors from around the world helps conserve the places they come to see.
Private land conservation in Patagonia is not new. Conservation visionaries Doug and Kristine Tompkins (respectively, the founder of The North Face outdoor gear company and the former CEO of Patagonia clothing company) bought more than 3,800 square miles of land in Chile and Argentina over decades. They donated most of that land to the governments to create or expand national parks.
For TNC, the connection between tourism and conservation in Patagonia traces back to the turn of the millennium in Chile’s Los Ríos region, just north of Puerto Montt. In 2003, a logging company converting old-growth temperate rainforest to eucalyptus plantations near the city of Valdivia went bankrupt. With support from the World Wildlife Fund, Conservation International and local partners, TNC bought the 148,000-acre property that two years later became the Valdivian Coastal Reserve.
Tourism in the reserve is led by the surrounding communities, says Reserve Manager Liliana Pezoa. “To conserve an area, you have to involve local people and give them economic alternatives to illegal logging or other destructive activities,” Pezoa says. “That way they become your allies in conservation; they understand that if the area is protected, more people will come.”
In addition to safeguarding the environmental resources those communities depend on, TNC helps residents set up ecotourist-related services like guided hikes, whale watching and gastronomic tours, many of which are connected to a coastal way of life. For example, visitors can trek fern-filled forests to see alerce trees that are more than 2,500 years old, then sample empanadas made from sustainably caught seafood—a local specialty—at family-run restaurants in Valdivia.
Farther south, the iconic peaks of Torres del Paine National Park make it one of the most popular parks in the country. Its remoteness and lack of a nearby population center dictate a different approach when planning a visit, says TNC’s Juan Pablo Rubilar, who leads conservation programs in Chile. It can be helpful for visitors to connect locally, he says, as “here it is mostly large private landowners with a close connection to tourism and the park.”
That’s why TNC partnered with the Chilean travel and hospitality company Explora, which operates luxury lodges across South America, including the only hotel in Torres del Paine park. In 2021, Explora purchased a 15,000-acre property adjacent to the national park with the goal of creating a financially self-sustaining private protected area. While the company will develop approximately 3% of the property for lodging facilities, administrative infrastructure and third-party properties, it created a conservation reserve in 2023 and granted TNC a conservation easement that protects the land for the long term.
Explora aims to turn this new market-driven conservation model—combining real estate with land protection—into a repeatable template and expand it to 2.5 million acres over the next 10 years.
One special draw for visitors to Torres del Paine is that the region is home to the world’s highest density of wild pumas. Tours to view the animals at the reserve and camera-trap footage are surging in popularity, especially among foreigners, who make up about 80% of visitors, says Rubilar. Once hunted as predators of cattle, pumas are now worth much more alive to local ranchers and landowners. The animals are living proof that conservation can pay for itself.
As different as they are, Valdivia and Torres del Paine both show how tourism can create revenue and motivate people—locals and visitors alike—to protect the natural world.
The Conservancy’s role is to facilitate that relationship so it holds over time—and ensure that conservation remains the ultimate goal, Rubilar says. “In Puchegüín, the idea is to mix these two realities: promoting natural and cultural heritage on one side, and ensuring tourism is an economic opportunity, not a threat to an existing way of life,” he says.
About the Creators
Julian Smith is a writer and author based in Portland, Oregon. He has been published in Wired, Smithsonian and Scientific American.
Stephen Alvarez is a National Geographic explorer, photographer and filmmaker. He previously covered efforts to protect dark skies for this magazine.
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