Conservation Photography
Embracing the Wild: Conservation on Scotland’s Isle of Islay by David Dinsley




The winter sun sits low in the January sky. A bright beam illuminates the sea before me, and a crisp intermittent breeze can be felt, reminding me it isn’t spring yet. In the water below, an otter moves through the glare, skirting the rock edge, where land meets water. With smooth and slinking movements, it soon vanishes out of sight.
To my left the haunting call of a great northern diver echoes across a small coastal bay, reminiscent of the wailing from an eerie spirit. The diver sits tight to the surface, peering its head under for a quick glimpse below. I watch as it sinks under surface, looking for molluscs and fish in the waters below. It does this time and time again. Occasionally, it brings something to the surface, in this case a crab. It removes the crab’s legs and pincers from the carapace, before swallowing it whole.
In front of me, harbour seals lounge and loll on the rocks above the gentle lapping tide, snorting and whining when the urge strikes them. Drifting past the seals arrives a raft of sea ducks, these are red-breasted mergansers. Like the diver, they submerge below the surface looking for fish and seizing them within their serrated bills. They quickly catch and swallow the fish once they return to the water’s surface. But they aren’t alone. Opportunistic herring gulls follow them and pillage them of their catch. My feet are getting chilly. Wearing wellies and sitting still in a portable hide, winter’s cool grip is slowly sinking in. I’ve been in here for hours; watching, waiting, and observing. No sign of my query yet though, the camera is primed and ready for when and if the moment arises.

I’m here for eagles. White-tailed eagles.
My name is David, and I’m the luckiest man alive.
Life finds me on the Isle of Islay – Queen of the Hebrides. I am the warden of The Oa reserve, a 2,100-hectare nature reserve and working farm owned by the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds). I’ll be honest, I can’t believe I’m here. I have a huge sense of imposter syndrome that follows me around like the devil on my back and a lead weight in my boots.

Scotland, to me, was always ‘the dream.’ To live and to work on the west coast had long been an aspiration of mine, and for the longest time I never knew quite how to even achieve that. This place has forever held an allure and fascination in my heart. The friendly nature of the island communities, the rugged landscapes, beautiful coastlines, stunning waters and the jewel at the beating heart of it all, the wildlife. The amazing wildlife.
You really don’t have to travel to far off foreign lands for some spectacular species and remarkable encounters. In my opinion, Scotland’s wildlife is the absolute apex and upper echelon of British nature. From the mighty golden eagle and the majestic red deer, to the mysterious basking shark and charming otter.
So here I am. Living and working on the west coast of Scotland in a dream job role. I feel serene, content, even blessed. But let me assure you – things weren’t always this way.

My school life never really amounted to much, and I left with little more then I took with me to begin with. I didn’t go on to higher education and my early working life was sloppy at best.
Much of this was due to my disinterest in the work I was doing. Put simply, I was just going through the motions. Living day to day, week to week, pay packet to pay packet. I worked in factories, shops, warehouses, a vehicle refurbishment garage, and even a castle.

Don’t get me wrong, some of these jobs weren’t terrible, and I met some interesting folk within them. They certainly brought me out of my shell and forced me to live beyond the boundary of my comfort zone. I appreciated all of that, but I was unsettled and uninspired.
My dilemma was, I never knew how to channel my interest and passion for nature into a paying job.
Wildlife and nature had always been a part of my growing up. It may have waned a tad during my formative late teenage years; but it was always there in the background. I remember my childhood with a great fondness. My grandad Bill would often take me and my younger sister rock pooling around the tidal pools of Rocky Island, in the small suburban village of Seaton Sluice. One of those true gems of a memory that stays with you forever, imprinting on your future.
You couldn’t imagine the unbridled excitement I felt when I netted my first ever great crested newt, it was like an out of body experience. Naturally, this was before I knew they were a protected species and fear not, the newt was fine. On reflection it was a simpler naiver time. I wasn’t aware of environmental regulations, wildlife crime, the shocking rate of habitat and species loss – I could just enjoy nature for what it was, a pure joy.
Daily, I would fill my school bag with bird books, reading them during my break times. Back at home I would make my own books, doodling fact files for each species and getting lost in the natural world.



These memories were a far cry from my later years of unsatisfying jobs and an uncertain future. So I began to get the ball rolling; I created a birdwatching blog, started a nature specific Twitter account and Facebook page, and began volunteering with the National Trust, assisting in practical work on a local estate.
In 2014, the opportunity I needed appeared. A paid traineeship with Durham Wildlife Trust. I applied, and amazingly, I got it. There were six of us in the team and over the next ten months, funded by the National Heritage Lottery, we were given all the basic skills and training for habitat control, wildlife surveys and ground management works.
Upon finishing my traineeship, I landed my next gig with the RSPB, conducting overnight nest watches on breeding hen harrier in the Forest of Bowland AONB. My next stop was North Tyneside Council, managing green spaces, and from there I landed my biggest job to date.



In October 2015 I became the reserve warden for WWT (Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust) Washington, where I stayed for just under half a decade. This was a really special and formative time for me both personally and professionally. I made some special connections and learnt some invaluable lessons. I remember thinking to myself on many occasions, “wow, I’m getting paid to do this.”
This job also provided me with my first taste of international conservation work, catching and ringing Bewick’s Swans in Siberia as part of their long-term study by WWT.
During my career renaissance I also discovered my passion for wildlife photography. It creates a gateway to pure mental escapism for me, I can clear my mind and focus on the relationship between my eye, the camera and the subject. Nothing else matters in that split-second before I hit the shutter, capturing a moment in time. A fine example of this kind of electricity was when I locked eyes with a female Sparrowhawk – she stared with lightning yellow eyes straight down the barrel of the lens. Superb.
I’m never truly satisfied with the images I take, and I find myself always chasing the perfect image. This carrot on the stick is no doubt the compulsion that whets my appetite to carry on. Let’s be honest, if it was easy to achieve the perfect image, it would be a dull endeavour and over before it started.

As happy as I was – finally working in the career field I had hoped for and loving every minute – new opportunities dared me to dream even bigger. The time had come to take my next step, to continue to grow within my career. I had several interviews at the beginning of 2020 and then, things changed.
In April 2020 I, like many others in the UK, found myself furloughed during the first Covid-19 lockdown. The Coronavirus pandemic spread across the planet and threw our perceived normality off its axis. Travel and movements were restricted, traffic dried up, and my hometown of Whitley Bay felt like a ghost town.
Ordinarily my job would see me working outdoors five days a week on a nature reserve, but this new situation felt restrictive to say the least. I took to playing more guitar, editing old wildlife photographs, and watching Tiger King. But after just a few weeks I began to feel like a budgie in a cage. I should be outside; I’m not used to this much confinement.


However, lockdown presented me an opportunity, one I had previously glossed over for the bigger, more exciting adventures further afield. An opportunity to explore the coastal wilderness right on my doorstep. Living just off the seafront promenade, I could utilise that setting for my daily exercise and in doing so, suddenly a blank canvas was thrust my way and my small lockdown world opened up.
On blazing bright, warm spring mornings, the North Sea’s tidal drawl provided a constant back and forth soundtrack. Oystercatchers flocked just above the crashing waves. Starlings chattered, herring gulls surveyed the world from the chimney stacks above, and dog walkers and joggers went about their way.
My focus became the northern fulmars that adorned the small cliff face of the promenade, their ghostly grey shapes dressing the rockface like wayward ghouls, previously lost to the depths of the cold North Sea. With dark and dull eyes, they watched from above and their guttural cackles echoed out from the small caves and alcoves. In the air above and around me, others glided on relaxed wingbeats. Tilting their heads as they floated past, they’d give me an inquisitive once over.
I had found my lockdown muse.
These eerie yet charming sea birds provided me with my lockdown lifeline; a project, somewhere to visit and access easily from home. Allowing me my much-needed time to get outside, clear my mind and feed my photography habit.
Many others, it appears, felt the same. Shackled to their homes and local areas for the greater good and longing for the comfort of the once normal, wider world. Many began appreciating the free nature on their doorstep, garden birds feeding from bird feeders, the colourful appearance and flutter of spring butterflies, sparrows nesting in garden hedges. Of course, all this had always been there. People just hadn’t noticed before.
During this time of reduced footfall, quieter roads and enforced solitude, nature carried on like normal. In fact, it flourished! Less disturbance meant wildlife could thrive in locations previously too busy with human activity, and even took advantage of the rare human peace. In the empty morning streets of Newcastle’s Big Market, Roe Deer were caught on camera exploring the centre of the otherwise busy city. The clip went viral and even made the local TV news

As someone who had always loved nature, a renewed appreciation of it from a wider audience gave me some cheer in these troubling times. But it also increased my yearning to get back to work.
And in July I received an email out of the blue. A role I had interviewed for prior to the lockdown was now offering me the job. Naturally I couldn’t say no, and though times were uncertain, I confirmed almost immediately.
I couldn’t believe it. I was going to move to Scotland. A Scottish island, in fact.
So here I am. Living in the middle of a nature reserve, with golden eagles, red deer and hen harriers as neighbours.



In the hide it’s getting colder and the daylight is rapidly fading behind a wall of trees. The tide has risen and pushed the seals from their rocky lounges and into the water. I notice a large hunched and bold shape in amongst the tussle of branches on a dead, leafless tree to my right. It’s swiftly joined by another. Flying up from below and carried on broad wings and stiff wingbeats, it perches next to the other. These are the white-tailed eagles that I’m here for, and they’re huge.
They perch in this skeletal tree for some time, barely moving. Looking in all directions, surveying and scanning their territory. Suddenly, they take flight and head straight along the edge of the bay and out towards the sea. They swing back and lunge at a large bird, sending it down into the water. The great northern divers in front of me can be heard panicking as they disappear from sight. In all the commotion, I can’t quite tell what just happened. Both eagles gain height and turn back towards their downed target, swooping and snatching at it with talons ready. Flying low and extending their legs, they make a decent go of it, but miss.

As the eagles fly up to gain height and speed one more time, I manage to get a look at what exactly it is that they are targeting. Shockingly, it’s a buzzard! In most parts of the UK this would be the dominant raptor species, but not here. The buzzard uses its wings like oars and swims for the rocky shore of the bay. The eagles swoop again, and the buzzard retaliates defensively by thrusting its own talons towards the eagles.
One of the eagles retreats back into the treeline and vanishes, the other returns for a final attempt. But it doesn’t manage to grab its prey and with that it returns to the tree. The buzzard continues swimming towards the shore and from what I can tell, just about makes it.
The eagles have given up. It’s getting dark and cold fast, perhaps they thought it too big of a risk to predate this buzzard at this crucial time of the day. Recent nights have been freezing and should the buzzard have made it to shore, who’s to say it would have survived.
As a final hoorah, the eagle erupts high from the tree and flies right over the top of me, out of sight.
My name is David, and I’m the luckiest man alive.
To read more, please visit Discover Interesting.

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Conservation Photography
Guy Harvey Documentary Claims Closing Night at Fort Lauderdale Film Festival

The 65-foot research vessel cuts through Caribbean waters while a man with a PhD in marine biology leans over the stern, watching a tagged bull shark disappear into the blue. On deck, watercolor palettes wait beside satellite tracking equipment. This is the contradiction at the heart of Guy Harvey: a scientist who abandoned academia for art, only to discover his paintings could accomplish what peer-reviewed journals could not.
After four decades of transforming marine wildlife into cultural currency, Harvey’s story finally arrives on screen. Guy Harvey, directed by 22-time Emmy Award winner Nick Nanton and produced by Astonish Entertainment, will close the 40th Annual Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival with its world premiere on February 28 at 6:30 p.m. at the Museum of Discovery and Science. The screening includes a Q&A with cast and crew, followed by a celebratory reception.

The Artist Who Rebuilt Billfish Populations With Brushstrokes
Harvey never intended to become a conservation icon. Born in Jamaica with a British Army father, he earned his doctorate from the University of the West Indies in 1984, fully prepared for a life of academic marine biology. Then came 1988, when he set up a modest booth at a Fort Lauderdale boat show to sell his fish paintings.
What happened next reshaped marine conservation funding in ways traditional nonprofits still study. Harvey’s scientifically accurate depictions of marlin, sailfish, and sharks resonated with the sportfishing community at a visceral level. His T-shirts became ubiquitous along coastal America. That revenue stream, now reaching over one million followers across social platforms, generates ongoing support for the Guy Harvey Foundation and Guy Harvey Research Institute at Nova Southeastern University.
Consider the scope: over $800,000 in marine science scholarships funded, 2,168 teachers trained in marine science education as of late 2024, curriculum reaching an estimated 50 million students globally through partnerships with Discovery Education and Florida Virtual School. Research projects span from 22-year stingray population surveys in the Cayman Islands to groundbreaking billfish tracking studies proving catch-and-release sustainability.
“Guy Harvey bridges worlds: he’s as much a scientist as he is an artist, and his work has changed how millions of people see the ocean,” Nanton explains in the film’s press materials. “This film celebrates not just his achievements, but the movement he’s inspired to preserve our planet’s most vital resource.”
Nanton’s Lens: Where Biography Meets Cultural Archaeology
Nanton brings complementary credentials to Harvey’s story. Dubbed “America’s Biographer” by Larry King, the Orlando-based director has spent two decades documenting how individuals catalyze cultural change. His 60-plus documentaries cover everyone from Notre Dame’s Rudy Ruettiger to XPRIZE founder Peter Diamandis, collecting 43 Emmy nominations and 22 wins along the way.
Nanton’s filmmaking philosophy rejects hagiography in favor of what he calls “connection through contradiction.” His subjects succeed not despite their complexities but because of them. For Guy Harvey, this meant filming across the Cayman Islands, Panama, California, and Florida, capturing not just the artist at his easel but the diver photographing free-swimming billfish at depths most people avoid, the scientist collaborating with Tropic Star Lodge researchers on sailfish migration patterns, the educator developing STEAM curriculum for elementary schools.
The director assembled a production team matching the subject’s scope. Underwater cinematographer Carlo Alberto Orecchia captures what Harvey sees before he paints it. The film features fellow marine artist Robert Wyland, wildlife sculptor Kent Ullberg, photographer Jim Abernethy, Harvey’s children Alex and Jessica Harvey (the latter now serving as Guy Harvey Foundation CEO), and dozens of scientists whose research Harvey funds.
Fort Lauderdale: The Only Logical Stage
Lisa Grigorian, Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival president and CEO, notes the fitting symmetry of hosting Harvey’s premiere: “As the fishing capital of the world, Fort Lauderdale is the perfect home for a film that celebrates marine life, conservation, and the legacy of one of the most iconic ocean artists of our time.”
The 40th anniversary festival (February 20-28) represents one of America’s longest-running film celebrations, founded in 1986 by the Broward County Film Society. Over four decades, FLIFF has hosted everyone from Audrey Hepburn to Matt Damon across venues including the historic Savor Cinema art house and Cinema Paradiso. The festival showcases 100-plus films annually, maintaining its reputation as a crucial test market for American independents and international cinema while operating year-round programming through its arthouse theaters.
Harvey’s journey mirrors the festival’s timeline almost exactly. They emerged together in the mid-1980s, when South Florida’s cultural infrastructure was finding its voice, and both survived the transition from analog to digital, from local to global. Each proved that regional institutions could achieve international impact through authenticity and relentless quality.
The Foundation’s Living Laboratory
While Harvey became famous for his art, the Guy Harvey Foundation and Research Institute conduct the science justifying conservation policy. Recent research demonstrates that a commercially harvested billfish generates $50-60 in value, while the same fish in recreational catch-and-release fisheries produces $2,000-plus in economic impact and can be caught repeatedly, creating both ecological sustainability and economic multiplier effects.
The Foundation’s current projects include monitoring Nassau grouper spawning aggregations in the Caribbean (among the last remaining), tracking shortfin mako sharks (classified as vulnerable to extinction), studying how juvenile bull sharks function as nutrient pumps between Everglades habitats, and maintaining the world’s longest-running wildlife interactive zone study at Stingray City in Grand Cayman.
Jessica Harvey, who leads the Foundation after years conducting fieldwork in the Cayman Islands Department of Environment, recently expanded educational reach through the Guy Harvey Conservation Education Program. The initiative provides free professional development in environmental STEAM education, turning participants into certified Guy Harvey Conservation Educators with grants and resources for classroom enhancement.
“It is our collective responsibility to preserve our marine environment and maintain the biodiversity of this planet,” Harvey states in the film. “But it takes cash to care.” His model proved that conservation could be self-sustaining if it connected emotionally with people who love the ocean, even if they never publish research papers.


Measuring Impact Beyond Gallery Walls
Harvey’s cultural penetration extends far beyond marine biology circles. His distinctive style appears on everything from Tervis tumblers (which donate $1 per product to the Foundation) to Norwegian Cruise Line partnerships to Florida Lottery scratch-off games funding marine science education. The Guy Harvey brand operates across the U.S., Caribbean, and Central America, with solar-powered manufacturing in El Salvador producing sustainable apparel that funds research.
International recognition followed: Panama’s Order of Vasco Núñez de Balboa Grand Officer (the nation’s highest honor for non-Panamanians), induction into the International Game Fish Association Hall of Fame, NOGI Award from the diving industry, Wyland ICON Award, and Artists for Conservation honors. He’s been inducted into fishing, scuba diving, and swimming halls of fame, a trifecta reflecting his multi-disciplinary approach.
The documentary captures this scope by filming Harvey in his natural habitats: underwater photographing subjects before painting them, aboard research vessels deploying satellite tags, visiting classrooms where teachers use his curriculum, and in his studio where scientific observation transforms into art that funds more science.
The Closing Night Convergence
Guy Harvey screens February 28 at 6:30 p.m. at Fort Lauderdale’s Museum of Discovery and Science, with tickets available through the FLIFF website. The post-screening Q&A and reception provide attendees access to filmmakers and potentially Harvey himself, offering rare insight into four decades of conservation work that rewrote the relationship between art, commerce, and environmental protection.
For Nanton, the film represents something larger than biography: a case study in how individual passion scales into movement. That movement includes the 2,000-plus teachers trained in marine science, the graduate students receiving Guy Harvey Fellowships through partnerships with Florida Sea Grant, the commercial fishermen adopting sustainable practices after seeing research funded by T-shirt sales, and the millions of people who wear Harvey’s art as a declaration of alliance with healthy oceans.
The documentary arrives as marine ecosystems face compounding threats: warming waters, overfishing, and accelerating habitat loss. Harvey’s model offers something conventional conservation often lacks: a bridge between scientific rigor and popular culture, between research journals and everyday life, between understanding marine ecology and actually caring enough to protect it.
When Harvey set up that booth at the Fort Lauderdale boat show in 1988, he was just trying to sell paintings. He created something more durable: proof that art could fund science, that commerce could serve conservation, and that one person’s obsession with accurately painting fish could help ensure those fish survive for future generations to see.

Event Details:
- Film: Guy Harvey (World Premiere)
- Date: Saturday, February 28, 2026
- Time: 6:30 p.m.
- Venue: Museum of Discovery and Science, Fort Lauderdale
- Festival: 40th Annual Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival
- Post-Screening: Q&A with cast and crew, followed by reception
- Tickets: Available at fliff.com
Written by: Junior Thanong Aiamkhophueng
Attribution: This article draws on information from an Astonish Entertainment press release; details on the Guy Harvey documentary directed by Nick Nanton; research and educational programs by the Guy Harvey Foundation and Guy Harvey Research Institute at Nova Southeastern University; Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival programming for the 40th anniversary celebration; and biographical information on Dr. Guy Harvey’s marine conservation work spanning Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, Panama, and Florida waters.
ABOUT THE ORGANIZATIONS

With a focused mission to better understand and conserve the ocean environment, the Guy Harvey Foundation (GHF) collaborates with local, national and international organizations to conduct scientific research and provides funding to affiliated researchers who share this objective The GHF also develops and hosts cutting-edge educational programs that help educators to foster the next era of marine conservationists, ensuring that future generations can enjoy and benefit from a properly balanced ocean ecosystem. www.GuyHarveyFoundation.org
Conservation Photography
North Atlantic Right Whale Entanglement Threatens Juvenile Named “Division”

A North Atlantic right whale sighted off Georgia with a serious entanglement is facing uncertain survival, experts say, highlighting the ongoing threats facing this critically endangered species.
An aerial survey team from Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC) first sighted “Division” (Catalog #5217, named for his callosity pattern that looks like a division sign) entangled off Jekyll Island, Georgia, on Dec. 3. The 3-year-old male had fishing line wrapping his head and mouth cutting into this blowhole and embedded in his upper jaw. NOAA Fisheries biologists have categorized the case as a “serious injury.” Scientists in the Anderson Cabot Center for Ocean Life at the New England Aquarium assessed the impact of the entanglement on the whale’s health, and what they saw was concerning.
“Division’s entanglement is significant and life-threatening,” said Heather Pettis, Senior Scientist in the Aquarium’s Anderson Cabot Center. “There are multiple indicators that Division has been entangled for some time and that the entanglement has led to a worrisome decline in his overall health. Aggregations of whale lice on the head, body, and tail, a pronounced decline in body condition, and a section of remaining rope that is deeply embedded in the top of the whale’s head leave us very concerned for this whale’s welfare and survival.”
Trained responders from the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, in collaboration with FWC and Clearwater Marine Aquarium Research Institute, were able to remove some of the fishing gear from the whale. Further response efforts will depend on the whale’s condition, weather, and resightings, according to NOAA.
Division was born to mother “Silt” (Catalog #1817) in 2022 and has been regularly sighted in the waters of New England and the Gulf of St. Lawrence. He was last seen gear-free in July 2025 in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
North Atlantic right whales are one of the most endangered large whale species in the world, with an estimated population of about 380 and only 72 reproductive females. This case marks the first right whale entangled with attached gear detected in 2025. Despite a relatively quiet year for right whale injury detections, researchers have noted that the low number may not represent accurate levels of events being experienced by the population, and it will take more time to determine if this reduction is real. The late fall and winter are not uncommon months for new entanglements to be detected for this population.
“Last year, there were four detected entanglement events in December, and so sighting this whale in its current state, while incredibly disheartening, was not a complete surprise,” Pettis said. “We are grateful for the extraordinary efforts that went into trying to free this whale from the gear and hold out hope that Division can overcome the odds stacked against him.”
Entanglements and vessel strikes remain the leading causes of death and injury for North Atlantic right whales. From 1980 to the present, scientists have documented over 1,800 entanglement events involving over 85 percent of the right whale population. Serious injuries and deaths of right whales caused by entanglements are preventable and highlight the importance of broad-scale adoption of ropeless or “on-demand” gear and weaker ropes. Without adequate protection measures implemented throughout the right whale’s range in U.S. and Canadian waters, combined with significant funding support, entanglements and vessel strikes will continue to threaten the survival of the species.
ABOUT THE ORGANIZATION

The New England Aquarium is a nonprofit research and conservation organization that has protected and cared for our ocean and marine animals for more than 55 years. We provide science-based solutions and help shape policies that create measurable change to address threats the ocean faces. We inspire action through discovery and help create engaged, resilient communities.
Conservation Photography
Running Wild: The Return of Patagonia National Park’s Rheas
The Chacabuco Valley stretched wide before us. The golden steppe was broken by winding rivers, framed by snow-capped ridges that seemed to glow in the fall sun. We were in the heart of Patagonia National Park, a place reborn from what used to be one of the largest sheep ranches in Chile. Old Estancias once carved the land into squares made of barbed wire and filled with overgrazed pastures. But today, those fences are gone. The grasslands pulse with guanacos again and the park has become a symbol of what rewilding can mean when it’s done right.
We’d come here to see a beacon of rewilding in the area, which took shape as an oddly familiar looking species of bird called the Darwin’s rhea (known locally as ñandú or choique.) It’s Patagonia’s strangest survivors, this flightless animal with legs built for speed and feathers streaked in soft browns that disappear into the grass. From a distance, they look almost prehistoric, like something you might imagine darting across the steppe in a bygone epoch. Up close, they’re ecosystem engineers, spreading seeds that shape grassland health, and feed predators such as pumas and foxes that depend on them for survival.

These birds possess an unusual way of fertilizing the land, making them critical players and worth a heavy invesment in their rewilding. Unlike guanacos, which use fixed latrines (skat dropping areas) that concentrate nutrients in one spot, rheas are wanderers in every sense. As they roam, they drop seeds across the steppe in a steady scatter, with each pile of droppings carried further by rodents like tuco-tucos that burrow and churn the soil. This gives plants a chance to take root in Patagonia’s harsh winds. It’s a less prominent, yet highly fundamental cycle where rheas eat, move, fertilize, and in doing so, stitch the landscape together. Without them, the steppe would grow weaker and far less resilient.

Rheas, standing about three feet tall, are designed to vanish into Patagonia’s grasslands rather than dominate them. Rheas move almost like ghosts, disappearing into the landscape until you realize the ground itself was alive and moving all along. And yet here, in what should be one of their strongholds, rheas had nearly vanished.
Just a decade ago, a survey inside the park found fewer than 22 individuals left—a catastrophically low number for a bird so integral. The reasons were painfully manmade, as they often are when it comes to biodiversity loss like this. Decades of ranching, which ended here in 2008, had blanketed the valley in fences that trapped and killed rheas. Eggs were taken for food, chicks were chased down, and their range shrank until they were pushing just shy of a memory.

That’s where Emiliana Retamal, a young veterinarian turned wildlife ranger, comes into the conversation. She’s part of a small team with Rewilding Chile trying to bring rheas back to the Chacabuco steppe. The first thing she said upon meeting was to slow our movements, talk less, and to follow her lead when approaching these flightless wonders. We were off to the holding pens that served as a temporary home for both rhea adults and chicks, known here as charitos. Some of them were getting ready to be released into the wild, marking another historic moment for the rewilding team.
The following morning was all about getting things right. Rewilding Chile’s rhea initiative, called Ñandú Conservation and Recovery Programme, has been running since 2014. Ever since, the team has been incubating eggs, raising chicks, slowly reintroducing birds into the wild, all building toward a goal of restoring a self-sustaining population of at least 100 adults and at least four actively reproducing.

For Emiliana, release days are equal parts research, nerves, and a ton of hope. Each bird is carefully prepared, including mandatory health checks, parasite treatments, and a period of acclimatization inside open-air pens where they gain strength and learn to fend for themselves. The idea is not to domesticate them in any way, but rather, give them just enough of a head start to survive top predators, and Patagonia’s harsh winters once the pen gates swing open. Some are fitted with GPS collars—the first of their kind for monitoring rheas here—allowing the team to track their survival rates and see if they’re reproducing in the wild.
We were fortunate enough to witness this particular relase, which was a true milestone. Alongside captive-born birds, a group of 15 rheas had been translocated from Argentina for the first time. These wild individuals were specifically brought in to bolster genetics. These bird groups act quite differently, with the wild ones moving as a tighter group and demonstrating discomfort around people. That’s exactly what Emiliana wants, as the goal is to ensure the animals remember what it means to be wild or remain entirely wild to up their chances of survival.

When the moment finally came, the puesto (or field station) buzzed with controlled urgency. Emiliana and her patchwork team of rangers, vets, community leaders, and allies, moved with practiced rhythm, coaxing these powerful, awkward-looking birds into small wooden crates. These rheas were not tame, so asking them to willingly go into confinement requires a patient and steady hand. Every movement was about safety—maximizing calmness while minimizing stress, and avoiding injury for all.
Outside, a convoy of trucks rumbled to life while drones circled high above, ready to follow the release. Autumn had painted the surrounding forests in fire-reds, yellows and oranges. The air carried the kind of crispness that warned of winter’s approach. Bundled in layers, we set off across the park along a road that wound through valleys where iconic mountains dominated the horizon. The landscape begged us to stop and stare, but the mission pushed us forward. When we reached the release site, the cages were lifted down and arranged side by side. The team stood in a nervous silence. Everything was ready, so the countdown began.

On the count of three, the gates opened and the wranglers stepped back fast. For a heartbeat, not a single bird moved. Then, with a rush of feathers and legs, the rheas spilled out into the open, scattering across the grasslands like wind made visible. Some lingered, hesitating at the threshold. Others bolted in tight groups, vanishing into the tawny steppe. It certainly was not graceful, but it was emotional nonetheless. A species that had nearly disappeared from this place was running free, once again.
Releases like this may look simple. Open the gates, let the birds run, right? But the reality is far from it. Rewilding is hard work, and with rheas, it’s closer to brutal. In the wild, more than half of chicks don’t survive their first year. Eggs are eaten by predators or trampled by livestock, chicks are picked off by foxes, eagles, and pumas, and even curiosity can be fatal. Young birds often die from mistaking the wrong thing for food, like rocks or other inedible objects. And on top of that, the male birds are sometimes left caring for 50 chicks at once, making survival that much harder. Add to that the genetic bottleneck of starting with so few individuals in the wild, and every single bird that makes it into adulthood feels like a victory against impossible odds.

That’s why Emiliana and her team treat each rhea like an individual case study. Every release is followed by weeks of long days in the field monitoring and collecting data. Collars on individuals provide glimpses of survival, but much of the knowledge still comes from old-fashioned ranger work of tracking footprints across the steppe. Their job next will be to spot birds from a distance, asking local police and community members to report sightings to speed up the process.
And yet, for all the setbacks, the progress is undeniable for this team. From a ghost population of just 22 individuals to more than 70 now roaming the Chacabuco steppe, the recovery is indisputable. But numbers alone aren’t enough around here. Survival depends on genetics, and until recently, most of the birds released here had been hatched or raised in captivity. This means they were strong in body, but softer in instinct. This release however, was marking a turning point.

These 15 wild rheas translocated from Argentina to Puesto Ñandú—just a few kilometers from the border—arrived carrying what captive-bred birds could not: diverse DNA, sharper instincts, and that memory of how to live without the aid of humans. While borders divide people, they mean nothing to the animals who cross them freely. Rheas don’t recognize Chile or Argentina, but they recognize habitat. And if this recovery is to last, it will take both nations working together to protect the grasslands they share.
Even with the numbers trending upward, one of the biggest challenges is, of course, social. In nearby Cochrane, Emiliana is known casually as “the choique girl.” People are aware of the project, but they don’t always feel ownership of it. Many still see the park as something created by outsiders, disconnected from their lives. That gap is fundamental, and something the Rewilding Chile team, as well as its other collaborators including Quimán Reserve, CONAF (Chile’s National Forestry Corporation), SAG (Agriculture and Livestock Service) and Carabineros de Chile, are putting emphasis on. Rewilding efforts must be equally about saving species and building genuine relationships with communities or everything done in the field will not be effective.

Being in attendance on that release day, standing in the steppe as the cages opened and rheas burst back into a landscape that once nearly lost them, was something that will never escape our memory. The pride on the team’s faces, the outward relief after months of preparation, the sight of those birds vanishing into the golden grasslands, all felt triumphant.
As Emiliana reminded us, this is only the beginning. In the vastness of Patagonia National Park, surrounded by snow-capped ridges and rivers that once ran through sheep pastures, the work ahead is as immense as the landscape itself. Watching rheas roam free again was proof that rewilding means to restore the past, in addition to defining a new future, where ecosystems can someday thrive without our intervention.
Written by: Andi Cross
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andi Cross is an explorer, strategist, and extended range diver with Scuba Schools International and Scubapro, who leads Edges of Earth—a global expedition and consulting collective documenting resilience and climate solutions across the world’s most remote coastlines. Her work centers on “positive deviance”—spotlighting outliers succeeding against the odds—and using storytelling and strategy to help scale their impact.
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