From the Forests of Iguazú to the Wild Heart of Patagonia

My relationship with Argentina began in the subtropical north, travelling with my partner Carly and staying at Yakutinga Lodge, deep in the forest near Iguazú. There was no conventional electricity or lighting after dark. As the forest disappeared into darkness, every sound seemed amplified, and the feeling of being surrounded by wilderness became almost tangible.

From there we continued to Iguazú Falls, spending several days photographing the immense walls of water surrounded by rainforest before crossing to the Brazilian side. It was a world of movement and constant sound, but Argentina would later offer a very different kind of wilderness.

I returned with my friend and fellow photographer Vincent Verstraete, this time heading south into Patagonia with one particular goal: the pumas of Torres del Paine.

Days were spent searching the vast landscape, where mountains, open plains and changing light seemed to stretch endlessly. Then, without warning, the search suddenly became real.

A female puma appeared with her four cubs.

For a few moments, everything else seemed to disappear. The landscape, the waiting, the kilometers travelled, all of it led to this single encounter. The cubs followed their mother across the road, completely unaware of the photographers watching them.

A British film crew from Silverback Films was also documenting the animals. We were asked not to follow as they moved with the pumas, so that the animals' behaviour would not be influenced and their filming would remain undisturbed. We respected the request. The encounter was already a privilege; there was no reason to turn it into something more intrusive.

But Patagonia had another test of patience waiting for us.

Along the coast, we began searching for orcas hunting close to shore, hoping to witness their attacks on young seals. Hours passed. The sea remained empty. We watched the coastline, studied the water and waited for the smallest sign of movement.

Then the tension would suddenly rise: a fin in the distance, a disturbance in the water, a glimpse that might mean nothing, or everything.

The decisive moment, if it came, could last only seconds.

Those long hours taught me something I have experienced repeatedly in the wild: the waiting is not separate from the photograph. It is part of it. Every hour spent watching the empty sea makes the moment of an encounter more intense.

Looking back, my two journeys through Argentina feel almost like two different worlds. The first was the quiet intimacy of forest and waterfall; the second was the vastness of Patagonia, where the appearance of a mother puma and her four cubs, or the distant arrival of an orca, could transform an entire day.

In Patagonia, nature never promised us the photograph we had travelled for. It simply asked us to be there, watching, when the moment finally came.