I first heard his whistle on the Chilkoot Trail.
He looked so forlorn and impossibly frail
Hauling a year’s supply of provisions.
I tell you his backpack drew my suspicions.
No one discovered from whence he came.
None of us ever did ask for his name.
After I searched his peculiar pack
We called him the Eggman, behind his back.
That knapsack never was out of his sight.
He held it all day. He hugged it all night.
The moon was full. I couldn’t sleep.
I simply had to take a peek.
I let loose the laces. I undid the clasp.
My jaw fell open —a stupefied gasp.
I removed the egg and declared out loud,
“Humpty Dumpty would have been proud.”
I considered the price of a Dawson egg,
A dozen could cost you an arm and a leg,
But this behemoth was really big stuff.
As they say in Paris, “Un oeuf is un oeuf.”
It slipped from my mitts to the hard-packed snow.
It wobbled, I scrambled, and wouldn’t you know
It rolled off the edge of a steep snowy shelf.
I’d failed to rescue the darn thing myself.
What would he make of this situation?
My fault? No that’s an egg-zaduration.
If he learned I dropped his prize on the ground
I’d be walking on eggshells all the way down.
With trembling hands I rolled a snow ball,
Of duplicate weight and size over all.
I crammed it inside mere seconds before
A snort and a gasp interrupted his snore.
We finished the journey with no suspicion,
Each day was a warmer weather condition.
The Yukon River to Dawson at dawn…
He looked in his pack and his precious was gone.
Hey! Remember the egg that wobbled and rolled?
I believe its story must now be told.
The egg had started an avalanche
That frightened a raven right off of her branch.
Raven returned when the rumbling ceased
And she was astonished to say the least.
A monstrous egg now lay in the nest,
It looked right at home snuggled in with the rest.
She mothered the spheroid with the whole litter
And hoped for the best for the shell-encased critter.
But when the brood hatched, it was clearly apparent
That Mamma Raven wasn’t the big one’s parent.
And sadly, to all the rest of the flock
The new bird became a big laughing stock,
Long neck, can’t fly, looking absurd,
They all ostracized the ostrich-sized bird.
Such cruel taunts —her self esteem wrecked,
Can you imagine the caws and effect?
In cool Marsh Lake mud her two toed impression
Marked where she walked the depths of depression.
Her fleet feet followed the Yukon downstream
Where rapids wrecked rafts and broke golden dreams,
And in the sand of Bonanza Creek’s bed
She lowered her neck and buried her head.
Around the broad bend of that cold quiet creek
Where big bird had gone and buried her beak,
With gold pan in hand, the Egg Man lurked.
High ho, the sourdough whistled and worked.
With her fuzzy head buried under the ground,
She was shocked to hear a familiar sound.
Her sad, sad spirits swiftly regaled.
’Twas breathtaking. Oh oh! Gravel inhaled!
She stood there not breathing, her eyes open wide.
He ran up behind her and quickly applied
A Heimlich Maneuver with a Klondike twist.
She coughed a gold nugget the size of your fist.
Together they worked the old Eggman’s claim.
She was more than willing to join in his game.
That bird learned quickly and by early fall
She was coughing up gold with every hair ball.
They joined a tap dancer whose trained peacock
Could shake a tail feather and rhythmically squawk.
Using applause and cheers as a gauge
They were a hit on the Palace Grand stage.
The tap dancer fell for the whistling dude.
In no time a double wedding ensued,
‘Cause Ostrich and Peacock were also included,
And in a few weeks an egg was extruded.
Soon the shell cracked and out poked a beak.
Both Mommy and Daddy said, “This bird's unique.
I think we created a brand-new breed,
It’s going to cost us a fortune to feed.”
His legs grew lanky, his feathers enormous.
Fanning his plumage, parading before us,
His tail feathers shaded a towering tree,
And that’s one tall tale —I’m sure you agree!
NOTE: I have written a tall-tale, far-fetched story in the form of a humorous poem. If you want to know the true story of what life was like in the area that we now call Yukon you should connect with the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in Cultural Centre or the Dänojà Zho Cultural Centre to read the amazing story of the Hän people who thrived in that region for over 14,000 years.
© Al Simmons 2025
www.alsimmons.com
