An original Olympic Winter Games mystery

Originally published in SKY Magazine, February 2002

A light snow had begun to fall, its touch as soft as a flurry of cotton balls. I had presumed I'd be viewing the Olympic Winter Games at Snowbasin Ski Area right about now. Instead I was lying face down in the snow freezing my rear off.

So much for visions of sitting by a roaring fireplace, sipping cognac with some handsome hunk. I wasn't one of the lucky stiffs who had tickets to watch skiers race downhill. Rather, I found myself assigned to outer-perimeter security far from the action, where no Olympic events were scheduled to take place. Ah, the glamour and allure of being a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

The call had come from the top brass in D.C.: "Agent Rachel Porter? Congratulations. You're being placed on security detail for the 2002 Olympic Winter Games in Utah."

I couldn't believe my good fortune. Two factors had helped me snag the plum assignment: My superiors were convinced that I could ski, and I had a free place to stay with my cousin in Salt Lake City. There was just one tiny detail that I hadn't bothered to mention. The last time I'd hit the slopes was 20 years ago -- and most of that occasion had been spent in the lodge drinking hot chocolate.

I hadn't been in town long when I spotted a distinctive blue-gray feather on my cousin's shelf. Forget the Maltese falcon, Road Runner or Tweety. This feather came from the avian equivalent of Julia Roberts -- the highly prized and illustrious Northern goshawk.

"Hey, Gil. Where'd you get the feather?" I'd asked during dinner. Her oven was on the fritz and we were sucking down partially frozen pizza.

My cousin Gillian had once dreamt of becoming a makeup artist for the movies. Part of her wish had been fulfilled; she worked at a funeral parlor applying cosmetics to corpses.

"I found it in the pocket of one of my clients, Mr. Canaan, the head of a local bird sanctuary," she said. "I didn't think he'd mind if I took it. The guy must have thought he was a bird himself, the way he skied off a cliff." Her baby blues fluttered beneath a ton of purple eye shadow. "From what I hear," she continued, "he was a rank amateur who should never have tackled Alf's High Rustler Trail. But what's really strange is that he was skiing up there at 6 in the morning. All I can figure is, he must not have liked to be among crowds."

Or perhaps, suspecting something illegal, he'd run into foul play.

Listed as a "sensitive species," Northern goshawks have declined along with their forest habitat. My guess was that Mr. Ornithologist had gotten wind of some illegal logging in their area. Then again, he might have heard that birds were being poached and decided to check it out. Either way, he'd gotten himself into big trouble.

Goshawks are legendary for their ferocity, a quality that once made them numero uno with falconers in medieval Europe. Since then their popularity had plummeted. But as the saying goes, everything old is new again. The live birds were back in demand, with a going price on their heads of 10,000 bucks each.

It just so happened that Alf's High Rustler Trail is in Alta, where I was stationed. What could it hurt to do a little snooping around? With that in mind, I loaded a snowmobile into the back of my pickup and set my clock for 4 a.m. By 4:15, I was on the road.

The sky was still dark as I sped around the Wasatch Mountains. This was always the most magical time to be awake. Night and dawn lay entwined like two lovers, both of them loath to leave their sensual embrace.

I chose not to park in the lot at the end of Little Cottonwood Canyon, swerving instead onto an access road. Then, backing up to a snowbank, I lowered the tailgate, hopped on the snowmobile and took off.

All the world was still as I rode the ridge's backbone, the air so crisp it nearly hurt to breathe. A strand of stars twinkled above the treetops, guiding my way like a series of cosmic headlights.

The forest soon grew too dense to proceed by snowmobile, so I continued on the cross-country skis I'd secured to my pack. Who could have guessed my daily workouton the NordicTrack would finally pay off? So far at least, I'd managed to stay upright. I eventually reached a good vantage point near the cliff that Mr. Canaan had skied off. Stepping out of my skis, I lay down, removed the sheet I'd stashed in my pack and pulled it over myself for cover. Then I waited and watched.

Talk about your bone-chilling cold! If I was going to freeze to death, I might as well go with a chocolate bar in my mouth. Fortunately, I'd come well-supplied. Just as I pulled the wrapper off a Snickers, a mechanical sound filled the air.

Whomp, whomp, whomp.

The whirl of a propeller ripped through the sky like a knife.

Elite skiers sometimes hire helicopters to drop them on virgin trails, but that's not allowed in Alta. Either some arrogant tourists were breaking the rules, or I'd stumbled upon what Mr. Canaan had found.

The helicopter landed and two figures emerged. I followed their movements with my binoculars. They skied down the slope as the sun steadily rose, the butterscotch light illuminating their tracks like slash marks.

The two men came to a stop upon reaching the tree line and removed something from a backpack. Then they climbed adjoining pines. Close to the top, they erected a mist net. The web was woven of filament so fine that it was virtually invisible.

Those scum! The poachers apparently believed every agent on duty was stationed either at Snowbasin or in Park City, and were craftily using the Olympic Winter Games as an opportunity to snare goshawks.

They baited their trap with an owl decoy. These guys clearly knew what they were doing. It wouldn't take long before a fiercely territorial goshawk came barreling through the air like a fighter plane. The men climbed back down to wait, as calculating as a couple of spiders. I used the opportunity to creep closer.

Soon there was a whoosh in the trees, and a large hawk came swooping through the canopy. This feathered Maserati took the curves with ease, just one thing on its mind -- to attack.

The goshawk darted straight for the owl, only to become hopelessly entangled in the web. That was the cue for the culprits to leap up, stuff their prey in a bag and split.

"Halt! I'm a U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent and you're under arrest!" I yelled, stepping into my skis.

The two men paid no heed and shot off in a rooster tail of spray. I quickly followed on the treacherous trail that lay before me. As I looked down 10,000 feet of sheer fear, the "oh no" factor kicked in. Still, I had no choice but to say a prayer, hold my breath and kiss my good sense goodbye.

I tore down the slope like a certified lunatic, zigzagging to try and control my speed. Everything seemed to be going all right -- until I zagged when I should have zigged.

Kaboom!

At the same instant, a deafening roar filled the air, and my heart flew into my throat. It made no difference that I knew the ski resort below was simply shooting cannons at snowdrifts. The fear of an avalanche was enough to throw me off balance, and I began to tumble like a rolling stone. I fell headfirst, with nothing to break my fall. Even worse, the poachers were getting away.

The case was lost! My career was over! My future looked grim -- until I came to a stop against a tree trunk, and two passing skiers flew to my aid.

"Need some help?" one asked.

"I'm a federal agent, and those two men illegally netted a goshawk," I gasped. "Do you think you can you catch up to them?"

"We're with the U.S. Olympic Ski Team," the second one replied. "Just consider it part of our practice."

I'd never been so glad to see a couple of cute jocks in all my life.

They moved like the wind, expertly weaving between trees. My pulse raced along, vicariously following each twist and turn. In no time, they overtook the smugglers in a series of fancy crisscrosses. Their maneuvers worked like a charm. The culprits were distracted long enough to miss a barrier that had sprung up in front of them.

"Watch out for the bird!" I screamed, as the fugitives began to plunge into a free fall.

One of my rescuers grabbed the sack, only to have it slip from his grasp. The pouch soared through the air as if on wings of its own. It was a miniature body bag with precious cargo inside -- until a talon ripped through the cloth. An instant later, a feathered torpedo flew out and celebrated its freedom in a joyous somersault.

By now, I'd made my way down to where the smugglers lay snowbound with two determined skiers sprawled on top.

I promptly snapped handcuffs onto both perps' wrists. "Hi. I'm your friendly U.S. Fish and Wildlife law enforcement agent," I informed them. "And you are?"

"The Hardy Boys," one sneered.

So much for cordial introductions. While searching for weapons, I pulled out their wallets to become acquainted with John Hayes and Phillip Greer. Whaddaya know? Also in their possession were the recently deceased Mr. Canaan's credit cards.

"Hey, it's not like we killed the guy. We couldn't help it if he was clumsy and happened to stumble," Hardy Boy No. 2 volunteered.

"I suppose he also decided to throw you his wallet as he was careening off the cliff," I retorted. "And by the way, where's your permit and license to trap goshawks?"

My question was met with icy silence. It seemed unnecessary to ask if they realized the bird was also over a year old, making its capture all the more illegal.

Enough small talk. That could be done when they were locked behind bars in a warm cell. I called for some state wildlife agents to assist me and then punched in the number for my boss.

"Hayes and Greer?" rumbled a voice with all the warmth of pulverized gravel. "Heck! Some of your cohorts tried to nab those two ages ago. They've been making a fortune illegally pipelining goshawks to falconers in Europe and the Middle East for years. Rumor has it they're also deep into the drug trade."

No wonder Mr. Canaan had been killed.

The agents from the Utah Department of Natural Resources arrived in record time and promptly hauled the pair off to jail.

"I'm giving you one day to enjoy the Winter Games, Porter. After that, you're back on duty," my boss had growled before hanging up.

I spent the next morning cheering on my new Olympic friends as they competed to place silver and gold. But the best reward of all was the free tickets to one of the most highly sought-after Olympic Winter Games events -- the women's figure skating finals. Michelle Kwan, here I come!