Cool cat On the puma’s trail

Hoping to see the elusive Patagonian puma, Belinda Jackson’s patience pays off with an extraordinary sighting.

To fly over Chilean Patagonia in winter is an exercise in fortitude. Towering rocky peaks rear into stark skies, their long, jagged fingers seemingly reaching to snatch our aircraft.

There are no towns and few roads between the expanse of snowy plains studded with glacial lakes. This is a landscape that demands focus. It’s heroic, epic, and too magnificent to capture in one picture frame. But, of course, we try.

A decade ago, on my first visit to Patagonia and the Torres del Paine National Park, its tourist season extended through the summer only, from November until February.

Now, the action heats up in September, and pushes out until autumnal May. To call wintery July the off-season is an understatement, and in an edgy marketing move, winter in Torres del Paine is being billed as the ‘‘secret season’’. But the secret remains, why would anyone go? ‘‘Patagonia’s going to be all for you,’’ says my Chilean guide a week earlier, as we ride our ponies through the Atacama Desert, 4000 kilometres north of Torres del Paine. Basking in the winter sun in the country’s extreme north, he prepares me for the darkness, the plunging temperatures, and for the sheer inaccessibility of the frozen south.

While he’s talking, I’m privately calculating how many pairs of thermal leggings I can fit under my hiking pants. The average temperature, after all, is 3 degrees Celsius, its provinces bear such names as Ultima Esperanza (last hope), and the maps are waterproof.

There are a few logistics to consider when visiting in winter. For starters, the little Puerto Natales airport (the closest to Torres del Paine) closes in March. There is talk it will open yearround but, for now, its closure necessitates a fivehour drive from the region’s capital, Punta Arenas.

Our icy path is lined with lichen forests and semi-frozen lagoons, which are populated by neonpink flamingos that wouldn’t look out of place on a postcard from Miami. Most of the park’s lodges and camps are closed. The five-star Explora Lodge has always been the exception, joined recently by the four-star Hotel Lago Grey.

Stretching out in Lago Grey’s dining room after

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a Chilean dinner of guanaco empanadas and ceviche of Patagonian salmon, our puma-spotting group of two plus guide Rodrigo, survey our fellow adventurers. It’s puffer-jacket central, and though no-one’s mingling, there’s a sense of camaraderie among the group. In summer, this well-priced hotel is overflowing.

As we face the full-length windows that frame the Paine Grande, the highest peak at 3050 metres, I detect a hint of smugness in our cleverness avoiding the crowds, and paying half the price for our hotel stay. Today is the winter solstice, and the night has spread heavily over Patagonia, unwilling to relinquish its hold on the land. Dawn pushes against the sky, heavy with cloud that softens into

More information:

Latam flies from Auckland to Santiago, with connections to Punta Arenas and Puerto Natales, which are four hours and 11⁄2 hours respectively by road from Torres del Paine National Park.

See latam.com.

Rooms at the five-star Explora Lodge have views to the Torres massif. Stays are all-inclusive of activities and meals. The four-star Hotel Lago Grey sits to the west of the Torres massif.

See explora.com; lagogrey.com.

Quasar Expeditions runs five-day Secret Season itineraries from $4300 a person. Puma-tracking itineraries cost from $5540, including a tracking fee and four- or five-star accommodation. See quasarex.com.

Quasar Expeditions reports all sightings to the Awasi Foundation, which studies, tracks and protects the Patagonian puma. All data is shared with the government entity that controls the national park and the pumas that roam its borders. See awasipatagonia.com.

At the time of publication, Chile is subject to civil unrest and a state of emergency has been declared in most of the nation’s major cities. SafeTravel recommends visitors exercise a high degree of caution. See safetravel.govt.nz/chile.

Carbon footprint:

A return flight in economy class from Auckland to Santiago would generate 4.89 metric tons of CO2. To calculate and offset your carbon emissions, head to airnewzealand.co.nz/sustainability-customer-carbonoffset. a dusty rose at first light, around 8.30am.

‘‘It’s a different mood in winter,’’ says Rodrigo. ‘‘The sunrises and sunsets are slower, there’s no wind, and the light is softer and smoother, much better for photos. Sure, in summer you have more greenery and birdlife, but winter brings snow and pumas.’’

Our Jeep negotiates the almost deserted icy dirt roads and we have the walks and the lookouts to Los Cuernos – the iconic horns of the Torres massif – to ourselves. It really feels like the end of the Earth. We are primed and ready to spot South America’s Scarlet Pimpernel of the cat world.

In fact, we are citizen conservationists: whatever we see will be shared with the local Awasi Foundation, which studies, tracks and aims to protect Patagonia’s pumas.

Cristian Asun, its excursions manager, says there’s an estimated 100 pumas in the park, rising to 200 when you include those roaming the neighbouring estancias, or ranches. Therein lies the problem: the largest of this mountain lion species, Patagonian pumas can reach 2.8 metres in length and a slow-footed sheep or calf is an easier catch than a 90kg guanaco, a cousin of the llama.

The Chilean government hauled a protective cloak over its pumas in the 1970s, but they’ve been hunted to near threatened status and it is us, as we protect our food source, who are the culprits.

Furthermore, it’s taken the BBC 30 years or so to film these elusive creatures hunting: little wonder they’re billed as ‘‘ghost cats’’.

Back on the puma trail, long-legged jackrabbits, a favourite puma snack, erupt from the dark edges of the roadside, while guanaco herds, once pushed out by sheep and cattle estancias, leave mounds of brilliant green grass in their wake.

‘‘Guanaco toilet,’’ says Rodrigo explaining their communal bathroom habits. The canny creatures are civic-minded, as well. During a trek over hills (that have been cloaked in the residual fug of an upset skunk) to see cave paintings by the Aonikenk people, we hear a guanaco whinnying an alarm call – a cross between a bark and neigh – and we’re on high alert. This is a key puma signal. Soon after, a large guanaco trots purposefully down our path, passing within a metre of us before disappearing over a ridge.

The omens are good, and standing atop the ridge, we strain our ears and eyes for pumas. The