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Beyond the peaks of Paine


Torres del Paine may be Patagonia’s headline act, but the national park is not the region’s only draw. Words: Amelia Duggan


I


n the calm, bright morning, the frontier settlement of Puerto Natales feels like it’s catching


its breath. Beyond the wind-raked waters of Last Hope Sound, the Paine massif rises — a snow-bound cathedral of glaciers and granite spires. Their beauty draws travellers to Torres del Paine National Park, a wilderness just to the north west that’s been shaped by time on an epic scale. But on this October morning, with the crowds yet to arrive for the austral summer and winter barely loosened from the land, the view is particularly soul-quietening. Inevitably, any exploration of the


park starts here, in the gateway town of Puerto Natales. Guide Rosario Wevar meets me by the waterfront — her warm smile an antidote to the bitter chill — and we walk through streets of mismatched architecture. “Due to the amount of travellers


coming to Puerto Natales, it has evolved,” she says, nodding at the boutique hotels and brunch cafes that now mingle with trekking outfitters and weathered pubs. “A lot of people come in January and February to tick off famous hikes like the multi-day W Trek, but they aren’t prepared for how busy it gets. To feel wilderness here, you need to find quieter places.” I take that advice to heart. Leaving


town the next day, I travel the road stretching across an open steppe, dwarfed by distant massifs. The first stop is Rupestre, a 5,000-acre private farming estate that offers a glimpse


Pumas are a keystone species. Tey keep ecosystems balanced and tell us how healthy the land is,” biologist Diego Caravajal tells me


into Patagonia’s past. From here, guide Natalia Cruz leads me up a pitted track and into the hills above Lake Sofía. I keep driving north, the 4WD


humming across arrow-straight tarmac before the road breaks into uneven gravel. The 70-mile route towards Torres del Paine is as much a part of the experience as the park itself. I slow for guanacos, watch dust whirl across the verges and feel the steering wheel judder over potholes. I arrive at Pampa Lodge in


Río Serrano at sunset, its picture windows and timber decking facing the full southern wall of the massif. With hiking season just beginning, there are few guests. The receptionist tells me that, while the weather can be unpredictable, this is her favourite time in Patagonia — quieter trails, returning migratory birds and mornings when “the whole valley feels as if it’s waking up with you”. Dawn proves the point. I leave my


curtains open and, as the first light catches the peaks, the mountains blush. Wild horses graze beside the forest boardwalk that leads to breakfast; beyond them, workmen are already out levelling gravel roads for the season ahead. Later, driving west, the road passes


the silvered skeletons of burnt trees, before reaching Lago Grey. From its shore, winds whip spindrift off the water, icebergs drift and the wall of Grey Glacier glows against the dark lake. From here, it’s a clamber to reach Ferrier viewpoint — a long, challenging half-day trek — where my reward is the incredible sight of Torres del Paine, spread out at my feet like a map. For the last few days, I head


to the park’s eastern boundary, where understated Estancia Cerro Guido offers a way to experience the region’s ranching heritage. Set on 247,000 acres, the estancia’s


Te Travel Guide - brought to you by APL Media • Wednesday 4 March 2026


TORRES DEL PAINE MOUNTAIN RANGE REFLECTING IN LAKE PEHOÉ/JORDAN BANKS


century-old buildings mix history with hospitality: log fires, sheepskin rugs and sepia photographs of early settlers are complemented by the scent of roasting lamb drifting from the kitchen. From the windows, the eponymous towers of the national park flicker through cloud like a stunning mirage. Before dinner, over a shared


gourd of mate — a hot, herbal drink — resident gaucho Víctor Sharp tells me about the life of a Patagonian cowboy. Tourism, he says, helps keep gaucho traditions alive as technology replaces horsemen in the fields. “There are fewer and fewer places like this, where you can still see gauchos working,” he says. Preserving gaucho culture is one


BIOLOGISTS DIEGO CORNEJO AND CRISTINA DUNFORD TRACK PUMAS AT CERRO GUIDO, THE LARGEST RANCH IN CHILEAN PATAGONIA/AMELIA DUGGAN


GUIDE JORGE PÉREZ EXAMINES THe REMAINS OF A SHEEP KILLED BY A PUMA/AMELIA DUGGAN


of Cerro Guido’s aims; the other is a new conservation project reshaping attitudes to Patagonia’s apex predator, the puma. Until recently, as many as 100 were killed annually on the ranch in retaliation for livestock losses. But since 2019, the estancia has worked


closely with biologists to monitor them instead, adjusting herding practices to foster coexistence. I join one of the conservation


patrols at dawn. The car bounces towards a rocky escarpment, the sunlight creeping over the border with Argentina. “Pumas are a keystone species,” biologist Diego Carvajal tells me, his dark eyes sparkling in the cold. “They keep ecosystems balanced and tell us how healthy the land is.” We pull over and scan the ridges through binoculars. A radio crackles. Then a flash of gold: distant but unmistakable. For a long moment we fall quiet, watching the cat become part of the landscape again. Torres del Paine may be Patagonia’s headline attraction, but it’s only the beginning of the region’s story.


First published in the March 2026 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK). Read the feature in full at nationalgeographic.com/travel


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