WSJournal. An aquatic safari along Argentina's Patagonian

WSJournal. An aquatic safari along Argentina's Patagonian coast, where penguins outnumber people

OUR WILDLIFE ADVENTURE started with nothingness.

That's how the empty scrub and steppe looked on the 90-mile drive north from the Trelew airport, off Argentina's central Patagonian coast, to the Unesco World Heritage nature reserve of the Península Valdés. It was hard, at first, to see how the 1,400-square-mile kidney-shaped outcropping into the Atlantic could be one of South America's most important seabird and mammal conservation sites. The only real sign of life was bright yellow flowers by the road. We later learned it was wild arugula.

When my wife, Paula, and I rented the car, with just a few remaining hours of light, the agent at the airport had warned us against driving at night. His contention was that a man with an American passport had never shared a road with guanacos before. He was right. Nearly two hours later, we spotted a couple of the llama-like creatures nibbling and prancing in the brush as soon as we crossed the narrow spit where the scrub gives way to the peninsula. Then, the couple became a herd, and they were joined by thigh-high ostrichlike lesser rheas, scuttling big hairy armadillos and Patagonian cavies. The best way to describe the latter critters is to say they resemble 20-pound hares with short ears and rat legs—but cuter than that may sound.

Our drive along the rutted gravel quickly turned into an impromptu safari. I'd already visited Argentina with Paula, who was born and raised in the west of the country, but it was the first time I'd seen so much animal life beyond the ubiquitous cattle. Once, a dozen years ago, we'd spotted a single stray penguin in the beach town outside of Buenos Aires where Paula's mother now lives. I wanted to see more, including some of Patagonia's 1.3 million breeding pairs. In Argentina's portion of Patagonia, penguins outnumber people.

The peninsula is divided into 57 ranches, most of which are dedicated to raising sheep. Only three welcome overnight visitors, including Estancia Rincón Chico, on the peninsula's southeastern tip. Owners Agustín and María Ayuso, fifth-generation descendants of French Basque settlers, raise 5,000 Merino sheep and assorted wild animals on 14,000 acres. For guests staying in their eight rooms—cozy quarters down the hall from an eclectic common space furnished with antique ranch equipment and found whale bones—the real draw is 9 miles of private beach and the 12,000 southern elephant seals that live there.

Stays at the ranch include guided wildlife excursions, so after breakfast we piled into Mr. Ayuso's Land Rover and set out for the coast. Some 15 minutes later, we reached a plateau where giant boulders appeared to be scattered across the beach beneath us. As we descended to the sand, those huge stones turned out to be approximately 100 elephant seals basking and swimming. Up to 50% larger than the northern hemisphere's species, elephant seal bulls can measure 20 feet long and 9,000 pounds. They are the biggest seals in the world. The birds—oystercatchers, cormorants and grebes—along the shore were pure icing on the wildlife cake.

The next morning, Paula and I headed north along the peninsula's coast. After 25 miles, we reached the protected lagoon of Caleta Valdés (home to a second ranch, Estancia La Elvira, that also welcomes diners and overnight guests), where two gray foxes slumbered in the brush while a colony of penguins waddled on a beach 70 feet below. We could have spent hours hiking the lagoon's trails, but we were in a rush to get to Punta Norte, another 34 miles north, since this was orca season.

Each year, from February to April, 8-ton orcas swim along this shore to hunt sea lions in the peak of their pupping season; I'd watched the videos, and knew this was akin to witnessing a locomotive crash into a crowd of bathers. An hour later, we squeezed our rental car into the Punta Norte visitor center's parking lot, between Swiss and German motor homes, and then headed to a lookout for the spectacle. There were hordes of sea lions—resembling globs of moss slopped and flopping on the sand—but the orcas were nowhere to be seen.

"It would make sense in this country that they'd be on strike," Paula joked.

Although the Europeans seemed prepared to wait, we reluctantly returned to our car after an hour, and cut back through the peninsula, with a herd of guanacos scampering ahead of us on the road. Some three hours later, we pulled into Puerto Madryn, a resort town settled in the 19th century by Welsh on the Golfo Nuevo, 41 miles south of the Península Valdés nature reserve. We checked into the sleek 36-room Hotel Territorio, and consoled ourselves for having missed the orcas with heaping plates of scallops, mussels, shrimp, razor clams, calamari, pollock, hake and Patagonian lamb.

The next morning, it was hard to remain too disappointed since I had reservations to scuba dive with the sea lions. Along with the endangered southern right whales that gather in the bay from June to December to birth and raise their calves, the town is also known for the local sea lions at the Punta Loma reserve, just a 10-minute boat ride from its center.

I had signed up with Master Divers Patagonia, one of a handful of dive shops that line Puerto Madryn's Boulevard Almirante Brown. The dive master, Matías Arenas, and I waded out; then we climbed on board and set off with a flock of snowy sheathbills hovering above our boat. After anchoring off Punta Loma, Mr. Arenas and I jumped into 14-foot-deep water. Although I used scuba gear, the shallow depths would have made snorkeling almost as easy.

After just a few minutes, the sea lions appeared, divebombing between our legs, tugging at our fins and nipping at our forearms and heads. I was grateful for the 7-millimeter-thick wetsuits for reasons beyond the 64-degree water. Playful and eager for attention, the sea lions behaved like aquatic puppies. Mr. Arenas and I stayed in the water for close to an hour. When we came up, at least a 100 more sea lions were draped on the rocks.

As satisfying as this adventure was, I knew we still had a final stop before our safari was complete. Located 72 miles south of Trelew airport, Punta Tombo is home to the largest penguin colony in Patagonia. A boardwalk leads past crowded burrows and bushes, before unveiling more waddling throngs on the coast. Roberto Raffa, the chief ranger who has worked there for 23 years, estimated there were 30,000 to 40,000 penguins the day we visited. Then he smiled. "There'll be 10 times that in one or two weeks." It could have been a scene of tuxedo-clad Oompa-Loompas, if not for the braying and the scrub, and the redolence of guano in the air. Then Mr. Raffa asked, "Have you ever seen a penguin before? In the wild?"

I thought back to Paula's and my first adventure. "Once," I told him, "but it wasn't enough."

"Is this enough?" he asked, again smiling, then darted off before either of us could answer.

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