Patagonia’s Guanacos and Their Fight
Patagonia is a place of scale: a land where the sky feels twice as high and the horizon twice as far. It’s here, across more than 400,000 square miles of scrubland, mountains, and ice, that the guanaco — the wild cousin of the llama — continues its quiet battle for survival. Once, an estimated 20 million guanacos roamed the southern half of South America. Today, fewer than 600,000remain — a staggering 97% decline from pre-colonial times. In Argentina alone, guanaco populations have plummeted by over 90% since the 19th century. Yet in the remote folds of Patagonia, some herds still move freely, embodying a resilience that mirrors the land itself.
I set out with Javier, a conservation biologist based in Santa Cruz Province, on a week-long trek to find one of these surviving herds. We crossed the Patagonian steppe, a region that receives less than 8 inches of rainfall a year — drier than most deserts — and where winter winds regularly gust at up to 70 miles per hour. It’s a brutal environment, yet perfectly suited to the guanaco’s adaptations: lightweight frame, dense insulating fur, and specialized blood cells for high-altitude living.
After three days without a sighting, we stumbled upon a herd of about 40 guanacos, grazing against a backdrop of volcanic cliffs. The herd included several chulengos — the local word for baby guanacos — just a few weeks old. Watching them, it was easy to see why they were once called the "ghosts of the steppe." One alarm call, and the whole herd vanished in a coordinated sprint, capable of reaching speeds of up to 35 miles per hour across the loose scree.
The greatest threat to guanacos today isn’t pumas or harsh winters — it’s fences. Across Patagonia, an estimated 100,000 kilometers (62,000 miles) of sheep fencing slices through traditional guanaco migration routes. Each year, thousands of guanacos die from entanglement, often after hours or days of suffering. Research in Chubut Province found that fence entanglement accounts for up to 25% of guanaco mortalities in some regions.
Moreover, as livestock ranching intensified in the 20th century, guanacos were systematically eradicated from private lands, viewed as competitors for pasture. By the 1980s, some provinces had bounty programs that paid hunters by the head. Today, conservationists are working to reverse this legacy. Protected areas such as Parque Patagonia Argentina — spanning over 650,000 acres — are dismantling old fences and restoring migratory corridors. Meanwhile, in neighboring Chile, the "Route of Parks" initiative has created 17 national parks covering 28 million acres, offering new lifelines for wildlife.
But even as habitat restoration efforts grow, a new challenge looms: climate change. Models predict that by 2050, Patagonia could experience a 30% drop in rainfall in some areas, shrinking the already sparse grasslands guanacos depend on. This, combined with continued habitat fragmentation, could push isolated herds into genetic bottlenecks, reducing their long-term resilience. Already, some researchers are warning that without intervention, guanaco populations could decline by another 20-40% within the next few decades.
Sitting on a ridge as the sun set, I watched a lone guanaco silhouetted against the fiery sky. In its stillness, I felt the weight of an ancient lineage — guanacos have roamed these lands for at least 2 million years, long before humans ever set foot in South America. Their survival now hinges on a delicate balance: undoing the barriers we built, protecting the space they need, and adapting faster than the changes we’ve unleashed. Patagonia’s wind carries many things: dust, snow, the scent of rain. But perhaps most of all, it carries a question — whether we are willing to share the earth with those who were here first.