Argentina’s newest protected area fuses marine conservation with community-driven tourism, offering wild swims, eco-lodges, and a renewed future for a coastline long overlooked.
From my window on the three-hour flight from Buenos Aires to Comodoro Rivadavia, the landscape transformed before my eyes — from lush green river delta to golden steppe, then to a brilliant cobalt where the high desert meets the sea. My destination was Patagonia Azul, a freshly declared provincial park along Argentina’s South Atlantic shore.
This is not the Patagonia found on postcards. There are no snow-dusted peaks, shimmering glaciers, or trout-filled lakes. Instead, more than three million hectares — almost the size of Yosemite — stretch from arid plains to a dramatic, wind-lashed coast.
Patagonia Azul is among South America’s newest marine protection initiatives. Over 60 islands and islets emerge from the Atlantic here, forming the most biologically diverse section of Argentina’s shoreline. Long gravel roads cut through secluded hills where guanacos graze and pumas keep to the shadows, while offshore waters shelter kelp forests, sea lions, penguins, dolphins, and four different whale species.
Just 200 nautical miles out lies the edge of Argentina’s Exclusive Economic Zone — a border vigilantly watched yet often crossed by foreign industrial fishing fleets drawn to the area’s abundant marine life. Officially designated as a provincial park in April 2025, Patagonia Azul encompasses both land and sea, positioning this remote coast as a model for sustainable, experience-rich tourism and long-term conservation.
Creating a Haven for Wildlife and Visitors
Drawing travellers to Patagonia Azul requires a thoughtful blend of conservation, formal protection, and local engagement. Rewilding Argentina — a nonprofit born from the Tompkins Conservation legacy — has been steadily buying up large, often neglected ranchlands around a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve (designated in 2010) to form a protected corridor along the Patagonian coast. Over the past four years, the organisation has worked closely with local authorities, trained community guides, and built infrastructure to support low-impact tourism.
“Becoming a provincial park brings national and international recognition to what we’re doing. It underscores the importance of protecting the sea,” explained María Mendizabal, the park’s tourism coordinator.
Rewilding Argentina is no stranger to transforming remote places. In addition to Patagonia Azul, it manages three other official parks nationwide. Their model involves acquiring land around protected areas, bringing in conservation experts, and supporting species recovery. While in northern Argentina they focus on reintroducing wildlife such as jaguars, anteaters, and river otters, here the priority is preserving the already thriving ecosystem.
“It meant working with local people, park authorities, the municipality, and the province,” Mendizabal said of the park’s recent designation. “This wasn’t a destination — we had to start from scratch. Even locals didn’t always see it as theirs. Our goal was to help them feel proud of it. For this to succeed, it has to be their park too.”
Exploring a Forgotten Coast
Reaching Patagonia Azul is an adventure in itself. After landing in Comodoro Rivadavia — a coastal oil hub better known for fossil fuels than tourism — the journey continued with a three-hour drive north over a mix of highways and dirt tracks, through scrubland with no signs, no towns, and barely a mobile signal. Only wind, horizon, and sky.
Marine biologist Marti Zaffino greeted me for a hike along wind-whipped rocks overlooking the ocean. Guiding visitors on hikes, wildlife tours, and ocean swims, she moved confidently through the rugged terrain.
It was perhaps the most remote coastline I had ever seen. Beneath towering cliffs, tidepools shimmered with colourful algae. Handing me a wetsuit, Zaffino explained she needed to collect sea lettuce for dinner, then dove gracefully into the frigid water without a snorkel.
Following her into the golden kelp forest, I floated among swaying blades, flashes of silver fish, and ribbons of green. Afterwards, Zaffino poured hot water into a gourd of yerba maté and shared the story that began her love for the coast.
“When I was 13, my parents brought me here on holiday, and during a dive, two whales appeared right in front of me,” she recalled. “I felt tiny next to these giants in the vast sea. I’ve never forgotten that feeling.”
That evening, we stayed at Isla Leones Camps — one of two eco-lodges within the park — a solar-powered, plastic-free retreat for just 12 guests. My tiny house overlooked the bay, its rhythms lulling me to sleep.
The next day, we travelled by boat to Isla Leones to see the sea lion colony and visit an old lighthouse. A century ago, sea lions, penguins, and whales here were hunted for oil. Today, their colonies thrive undisturbed. Later, a two-hour drive south took us to Marisma Camps, a newer lodge for 15 guests, offering horseback rides, sweeping ocean views, and quiet luxury.
Sustained by Local Roots
At Marisma, guests share meals in sunlit dining spaces, enjoying steppe-inspired cuisine by local chef Carola Puracchio. Also the founder of AMAR Algas — a seaweed-based culinary venture in nearby Camarones — Puracchio crafts inventive dishes from the Atlantic’s bounty, such as seaweed pasta, mussels, clams, and mint-wakame ice cream.
“Harvesting food from the sea is in my essence,” she said. “I grew up gathering and eating what the ocean offered.”
The partnership with Camarones is integral to the park’s vision. Locals help run accommodations, guide tours, and supply fresh greenhouse-grown produce to the park’s kitchens. In this way, Patagonia Azul’s future is rooted as much in its community as in its wild landscapes.
“People have long considered this part of Patagonia inhospitable and remote, with vast distances to cross,” Puracchio reflected. “But these are landscapes full of life, joy, discovery, and treasures worth protecting.”
Here, true conservation means living within the project itself — building something enduring where local communities and wildlife can thrive side by side. Tourism isn’t a threat; it’s a carefully shaped tool for preservation.
On my final day, I rode horseback along a vast, deserted stretch of shoreline. Whale bones scattered on the sand were a stark reminder of how untouched this place remains. As the sun dipped over Bahía Bustamante, the sky erupted in magenta and violet, and I understood why those shaping this park believe in it so deeply. The future here is made moment by moment, by people protecting what they love.
That night, I took a hot shower, sipped Patagonian wine by the fire, spotted the Southern Cross glittering above, and fell asleep in the comfort of a warm bed in a place still unknown to most. In a world wrestling with ecological loss and climate anxiety, Patagonia Azul feels deliberate and hopeful — a destination that offers not just escape, but also purpose and commitment.
