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SONORA, Mexico — This landscape didn’t seem like a place to find jaguars, the world’s most famous jungle cat.
The ground was parched and rocky and mostly brown, other than the occasional cactus or palm tree. It was so hot and dry that even some of the prickly nopales were wilting.
Yet there it was — in the playback screen of a motion-sensing camera, strapped to an oak tree near a dry stream bed. Less than a week earlier, a large jaguar had walked exactly where I was now standing. Even from the small camera display, the cat looked imposing, with its oversized paws and a wide, skull-crushing jaw.
It was a blistering afternoon in April, and I was in the Northern Jaguar Reserve, a protected area in Sonora about 125 miles south of the US border in Arizona. The reserve and the region around it are home to the world’s northernmost population of jaguars, the largest cats in the Western Hemisphere, as well as three other species of wild felines: ocelots, bobcats, and mountain lions, or pumas.
The cat on the screen was named El Guapo. He’s the largest of five or six resident jaguars in the reserve and has likely fathered a handful of kittens, Miguel Gómez Ramírez, the reserve manager, told me.
El Guapo has a bold personality: While some of the park’s jaguars get spooked by the flash or sound of motion cameras scattered through the reserve, jumping in the air like surprised house cats, El Guapo doesn’t seem to care. It’s as if he knows he’s at the top of the food chain.
While jaguars are often associated with the tropics, they once ranged as far north as Southern California, the Grand Canyon, and possibly even Louisiana. The US had jaguars!
Then they were gone.
By the mid-1900s, ranchers and hunters had exterminated these felines, largely because they were seen — like many other wild predators — as a threat to cattle. Jaguars do occasionally kill cows, though few cases of livestock predation in the US have actually been verified.
Over the last few decades, several male jaguars have been spotted in their historic territory in the American Southwest — most recently, in December 2023. The extraordinary sightings give environmental advocates hope that jaguars could one day return to the US, fixing a broken food chain and recovering an important missing piece of Indigenous culture in the southern borderlands.
Those cats all came from northern Mexico. They came from the region where I was now standing, slipping through some of the last remaining gaps in the border wall.
That means any chance that jaguars now have of returning to the US depends on maintaining openings in the wall — and on an ample reserve of cats in northern Mexico. Jaguars can only reestablish in their northern range if they’re sufficiently abundant in Mexico, where they’re endangered. And like in the US, ranchers in Sonora have a long history of killing felines for their perceived, and occasionally real, threat to cattle.
While the Northern Jaguar Reserve helps protect wild cats in Sonora, what had ultimately brought me to Mexico was a project to conserve jaguars that extends far beyond the park’s boundary.
For many years, a small group of scientists and advocates have been working to cast Sonora’s jaguars in a different light — to turn them from beef-hungry villains to important features of the ecosystem that can bring ranchers financial reward. Those efforts appear to be paying off: The population of jaguars in the reserve and the ranching region around it is stable, if not growing, offering hope that people can live harmoniously with the predators they once loathed.
The Northern Jaguar Reserve is, without exaggerating, in the middle of nowhere.
I traveled there last month with Roberto Wolf, a veterinarian who leads the Northern Jaguar Project (NJP), an American nonprofit that oversees the refuge. After crossing the border south of Tucson, we drove another four hours or so to a charming ranch town called Sahuaripa, where the narrow streets were lined with brightly colored homes and full of stray dogs.
From there it was another few hours on to the reserve, largely on rugged dirt roads. (I felt like we were in one of those car commercials for all-terrain vehicles that are only useful in this exact scenario.)
Some time after entering the reserve we stopped by a log on the side of the road. It was covered in scratch marks, like the arm of a couch in a home filled with cats. That was the work of a mountain lion marking its territory, said Gómez, who met us in the park. He pointed out a motion camera nearby that had previously captured the behavior.
Right before arriving at our campsite, a skunk ran across the front of the car, did a handstand, and then disappeared into the scrub.
The next morning, which was cloudless and crisp, we hiked to a place called La Hielería — the spot where the trail cam had recently spotted El Guapo. Large winged shadows crossed our paths, cast by vultures hunting for carcasses.
La Hielería, once part of a cattle ranch, has an important place in cat conservation. In the late 1990s, when jaguars were reappearing in the US, a team of researchers began exploring northern Mexico to find out where they were coming from. As part of that work, a biologist named Gustavo Pablo Lorenzana Piña set up a motion camera by a stream bed in La Hielería.
The camera captured, as expected, cow after cow after cow. But then, as Lorenzana kept clicking through, he saw it: a jaguar, “the undisputed ruler of the neotropical forests, captured in a beautiful shot with shrubs and cacti in the background,” he said.
The image, taken in early 2000, was the first ever photo of a live jaguar in Sonora. It was a female, later named Gus, in honor of Gustavo.
Her story ended — as most other jaguar tales do — at the hands of humans. The animal was pursued and killed for allegedly harming cattle, Lorenzana told me.
Although it’s technically illegal to kill jaguars in Mexico, hunting them for real or perceived harm to livestock was once a common practice. And it’s still a threat today. In the late 20th century, at least five animals were killed on average per year in the state, according to the book Borderland Jaguars by David Brown and NJP co-founder Carlos López González.
One man I met, in his 70s, told me he’d killed six jaguars on a ranch that is now part of the reserve. (He’d typically use dogs to track down the cats and chase them into a cave or a tree. Then he’d shoot them.) Ranch owners would pay around $255 per slain jaguar.
Jaguars do occasionally kill calves, though they prefer to feed on wild prey, such as deer or javelina, a small, fierce peccary that looks like a pig. In Sonora, jaguars and pumas might each kill a few calves per year, which typically amounts to only a fraction of a rancher’s production.
While Gus was on the losing side of encounters between ranchers and cats, she left a lasting conservation legacy. By showing up on a trail cam in La Hielería, she helped prove that Sonora was home to a breeding population of jaguars. That spurred an effort to buy up ranches — including the one comprising La Hielería — and turn them into a reserve. NJP purchased its first ranch in 2003, and has since added several more.
Together they cover more than 56,000 acres.
Today the Northern Jaguar Reserve has a small yet healthy population of five or six jaguars, according to Carmina Gutiérrez González, a biologist at NJP. Motion cameras have spotted another 10 or so jaguars passing through the region, said Gutiérrez, who identifies individuals by their unique patterns of spots.
After seeing El Guapo on the camera in La Hielería I wandered down the dry stream bed, where I stumbled upon a pile of feces. Jaguar feces, Gómez suspected. I’ve never been so excited to find a pile of shit in my life.
People like Gómez who have spent more than a decade in the reserve have never seen jaguars face to face. My chance was close to zero. So poop? I’ll take it.
The reserve is essential though insufficient — it’s relatively small, covering less than 3 percent of the area of Yellowstone, for example. Jaguars in Sonora, meanwhile, have incredibly large home ranges, and can travel as much as 10 miles a day, Gómez said.
Protecting them in one small area isn’t enough in a region where hunting still occurs. So the Northern Jaguar Project had came up with another solution.
One morning, after a few nights in the reserve, we drove to a cattle ranch just beyond the boundary. We parked our dusty 4Runner next to a handful of cows and their calves, who froze and stared at us as if they had never seen humans before.
A rancher named Uriel Villarreal Peña, who owns the property, came out to greet us, trailed by two dogs. As we sat around his outdoor table, under the shade of a tin roof, he told us he owns a little more than 100 cattle — each worth several hundred dollars — that he sells in Sahuaripa to be exported to the US.
For more than a decade, Villarreal, who wore a ball cap, jeans, and a button-down shirt, has been part of a program called Viviendo con Felinos. The program, launched by NJP in 2007, works with ranchers to place motion cameras on their land. When those cameras detect a wild cat — a jaguar, puma, ocelot, or bobcat — the nonprofit pays the rancher from a pool of funds they’ve raised from donors. The idea, Wolf told me, is “to make living wild animals more valuable than dead ones.”
Photos of jaguars are worth $255 each — similar to what hunters might make for killing them. Photos of ocelots earn about $77, pumas $51, and bobcats $26. Each rancher can earn a max of about $1,020 a month for their photos — more than double the minimum monthly wage in Mexico. By joining Viviendo con Felinos, ranchers also agree not to kill any wild animals on their ranch, including deer and javelina.
(Mexico has another, unrelated program run by its national livestock confederation that partially reimburses ranchers for cattle killed by wild predators. Ranchers complain that these funds, which are similarly meant to reduce hunting, are hard to access and inadequate.)
Villarreal told me he joined the NJP program partly for the money. Cat photos taken on his ranch earn him a few thousand dollars each year, he said, which amounts to about 10 to 15 percent of his annual income from the ranch.
But he also just likes jaguars. “I’m interested in seeing animals, in preserving animals because they look pretty,” he said.
It helps that jaguars haven’t caused him many problems. When he was young, Villarreal thought wild cats were bad because they ate cattle, a rancher’s livelihood. But over time he learned that predators will avoid calves as long as they have plenty of deer and javelina to eat.
After sampling a bit of Villarreal’s homemade Bacanora — an agave-based liquor, similar to mezcal; my job is hard, I swear! — he took us to see one of his motion cameras. It was “nearby,” though getting there involved a short drive, a half-hour hike in the sun, and a run-in with a road runner, a manic-looking ground bird that always seems to be in a rush.
Strapped to a wooden post, the camera was plastic, colored in camo, and roughly the size of a brick. We opened it up and clicked through the recent photos. Me approaching. Rabbit. Deer. Fox. A raccoon-like creature called a ringtail. Coati. Ocelot. Javelina. Javelina. Javelina. Javelina. Javelina.
And more javelina.
I asked Villarreal what he thinks when he sees a wild cat on the camera. “1,500!,” he joked, referring to the money in Mexican pesos he earns from each picture of an ocelot. He then added, more seriously: “It feels good to be able to say that they do exist.”
To date, 21 ranchers near the reserve have joined Viviendo con Felinos. And together, their land comprises 126,000 acres — an area more than twice the size of the actual reserve. The program has in effect expanded the area across which jaguars and their prey are protected. What’s more, it’s so popular among ranchers that there’s actually an informal waitlist to join, Wolf said.
NJP has been slowly growing the program, but adding more ranches — and all of the photos they may take — is expensive, Wolf noted. Between fall of 2023 and fall of 2024, NJP spent well over $100,000 on photo awards alone. That doesn’t include staff time or the cost of cameras, which run around $150 each. And those cameras often need to be replaced because, of all things, woodpeckers occasionally hammer out the lenses and sensors, Gómez told me.
Viviendo con Felinos has given jaguars in Sonora more space to roam, and that alone is huge.
But these iconic animals are also benefiting from a more fundamental shift in the region — a shift in its culture and customs.
After our visit with Villarreal, we stopped at his neighbor’s property, a large ranch owned by Agustín Hurtado Aguayo. Hurtado, now in his 80s, is the former president of the state’s livestock association and a sizable figure in Sonora’s ranching community.
Several years ago, “I hated felines,” he told me at his home in the city of Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, a few hours west of Sahuaripa. Cowboy hats and a pair of bull horns hung from the wall. “I had a very bad image of them,” Hurtado said.
Hunting wild cats was a practice that older generations passed on, he said, and it stemmed from the belief that cats hurt production. “That’s the training we had,” he told me. It was also normal for cowboys to hunt and eat deer, he said, which diminished an important food source for predators.
After Villarreal joined Viviendo con Felinos, Hurtado grew curious about the program. He liked the cat photos from his neighbor’s ranch. “When I began to see photos from the cameras, I began to appreciate the animals,” he said, showing me his iPhone wallpaper of a mountain lion. “Little by little, my vision of wild cats began to change.”
Hurtado, who later also joined the program, realized that by limiting the number of cattle on his ranch, his cows would be healthier and there’d be more grass left over for deer. If he had more deer — and his workers refrained from hunting them — wild cats would kill fewer of his animals.
These ideas are becoming increasingly common among ranchers in Sonora who have joined the program.
“If we as ranchers or as owners of property preserve the normal food chain, we have no problem,” said Jose de la Cruz Coronado Aguayo, another rancher in Viviendo con Felinos.
There are other ways, too, to protect cattle from predators, such as by making sure calves don’t roam the mountains alone. In other regions of the world, installing predator deterrents, such as electric fences, alarms, and flashing lights, is also effective in preventing predation.
“Cats can really coexist with livestock,” Hurtado told me.
While it’s clear how photos of jaguars might make someone fall in love with wild cats, that doesn’t explain how ranchers like Hurtado learned how to farm in such a way that protects both felines and cattle. Wolf, of NJP, says it often comes down to individual experiences. Ranchers learn over time that by leaving deer alone or creating new water sources for animals, fewer livestock go missing. What’s also crucial, he said, is that by earning money for photos of cats, people in the program become more tolerant of their presence — and more open to compromise and finding ways to live with them.
Before we left his home, Hurtado took out his laptop and showed us photos from the motion cameras on his ranch. They were spectacular: A mountain lion, close to the camera and wearing a look of surprise. An ocelot with what looks like a mouse in its mouth. And several jaguars, including the image below, taken in 2023 — which he had set as his desktop background.
Not everyone in Sonora suddenly loves cats. Ranchers still blame jaguars when their calves disappear or turn up dead. And some jaguars are likely still killed discreetly. One rancher who’s not part of Viviendo con Felinos told me that since November he’s lost more than a dozen of his calves, and he suspects that wild cats are behind the damage. He says the reserve should be fenced in for the benefit of ranchers. (There’s no evidence that mountain lions or jaguars killed his calves, Wolf said.)
Tension in the region boiled over earlier this year, when a mountain lion apparently entered the house where a ranch worker was staying and attacked his dog. The worker, a man named Ricardo Vazquez Paredes, says he hit the cat with a pipe and the lion ran away, but not before injuring his dog, Blaki. While Wolf and some of the other ranchers I spoke to suspect his account might be exaggerated — it’s rare for mountain lions to go near human dwellings — the story raised concerns around Sahuaripa about jaguars and efforts to protect them.
Climate change might also worsen conflict in the region. Ranchers I spoke to say Sonora is getting drier, meaning there will be less and less grass for cattle — and for animals like deer that wild cats eat. That could make cows weaker and more likely to starve and jaguars hungrier and more likely to attack. Research suggests that jaguars kill more calves when it’s dry.
In 2023, a rancher in Viviendo con Felinos named Diego Ezrre Romero lost a calf to a jaguar. “The most critical thing on my ranch is water,” Ezrre told me. “There are few deer because of the conditions.”
This is to say: Conflict in Sonora isn’t about to disappear altogether.
Yet Viviendo con Felinos appears to be helping. Along with NJP’s other efforts to engage the community — education programs, for example, and painting murals that depict the iconic cats in Sahuaripa and other towns — the group is making ranchers in jaguar territory more tolerant to cats. And thanks to payments, more tolerant to losses that they may cause.
“Without them [NJP] there wouldn’t even be a jaguar here right now,” said Fausto Lorenzo, a rancher near Sahuaripa who’s not affiliated with the reserve. “All the ranchers would have killed them because that was the custom.”
From Hurtado’s home in Hermosillo, we drove back toward Arizona. The highway cut through fields of saguaro cactuses. Dust devils spun in the distance, moving like flying whirlpools across the scrubland.
The success that NJP has had in Mexico ultimately bodes well for efforts to restore jaguars to the US. The number of jaguars in the reserve is stable, Gutiérrez says, but motion cameras suggest that year-over-year more individuals are passing through the region. That’s more individuals that could potentially spill into the US.
One big problem, however, remains.
As we neared the US border, the wall came into focus. It was metal and brown and rose 18 feet above the desert. Now stretching hundreds of miles across the Southwest, the wall has made the border largely impassive to wildlife — including jaguars. And it’s still expanding. The Trump administration is now planning to complete one of the last unwalled sections of the border, a 25-mile stretch in the San Rafael Valley, about 150 miles northwest of the refuge, where jaguars have crossed into the US.
The future for Sonora’s jaguars appears promising regardless of whether Trump finishes his wall. NJP and other organizations have given these animals more space to live and helped lessen the threats they face.
The real loss will be felt in the US. And not just among environmentalists and other wildcat advocates. Jaguars have lived in the US long before any of us. They’re part of the country’s nature heritage — of the ecosystems that are truly American — and their absence leaves our landscapes impaired. Ranchers in Sonora teach us that we can live alongside the continent’s great predators. We just have to choose to.
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