The Mystery of the Egg I Once Ate

 

I know most of you read this blog because, like myself, you have an interest in unsolved mysteries, gruesome murders, haunted places and historical oddities. But I thought I'd switch things up a bit for today, and perhaps someone out there reading this might be able to solve a mystery that has left me baffled for the last 19 years.

Not too long ago someone asked me, "What was the strangest thing that ever happened to you?" Even though I have yet to see a ghost, UFO or Bigfoot (though I'm trying my hardest), the answer to this question was simple. It involves a really big egg that I took home, fried up, and ate for breakfast one morning. But this was no ordinary egg, and it appears to have been laid by no animal known to science.

In the spring of 2003 I was living with my ex-fiance in Williamsport, Lycoming County. One late spring morning I was fishing the stretch of Muncy Creek between Tivoli and Glen Mawr, just a few hundred feet upstream from the Barto Hollow Road bridge (this was long before the newer concrete bridge was built; at the time of this incident it was still the old black metal truss bridge). If you're familiar with this area, you'll know exactly the location to which I'm referring, as it is very popular with trout fisherman. And if you're more familiar with the wildlife of this area than I am, perhaps you can put this long-standing mystery to rest once and for all.

 

Map of where I found the mystery eggs

 

In this particular stretch, Muncy Creek is straight and shallow, and because of the slow current it's possible to see every pebble on the bottom of the stream quite clearly. As I was wading through the water, I saw three objects on the bottom of the streambed that caught my attention because they appeared so out of place. The water here is only about knee-deep, so I had little difficulty picking them up. At first glance, it appeared to be a white, perfectly spherical rock slightly larger than a softball. The texture of the object wasn't exactly smooth, but somewhat gritty. But it was too light in weight to be a rock, so I assumed it must be some sort of egg... though it weighed more than any egg I've ever encountered.

Being the curious sort, I took one of the eggs home, and spent a few hours holding it up to lightbulbs and over candle flames, trying to see if there was some critter inside. However, the shell was so thick that it was impossible to tell what was inside. Because of its round shape, my ex wondered if perhaps it was from a snake or turtle. I'd seen snapping turtles in Muncy Creek many times, and I've seen baby snappers newly hatched from their shell, but this egg was so large that a good 15 to 20 baby turtles could've fit inside. And, besides, snapping turtles lay their eggs on land, not in the water.

The shell was so hard and thick that it was impossible to imagine any type of bird or turtle with a beak strong enough to crack out of it. I learned this when my ex-fiance suggested that I break it open. Normally, I crack eggs by giving them a swift bump against the edge of my countertop, breaking it apart, and emptying it inside a 2-cup glass Pyrex measuring cup. Well, despite giving it many good whacks against the countertop, the shell wouldn't crack. I eventually succeeded in cracking open the shell with the use of a hammer from my toolbox. But the real surprise came when I poured the contents into the measuring cup. While the liquid part was similar to that of any other egg, the yolk was bright red. When I poured it out of the shell, it overflowed the 2-cup measuring glass.

Not knowing what to do next, we decided to do what any sane person would do in that situation: We pulled out a skillet and made ourselves an omelette.

Now, let me point out that I was never much of a fan of eggs in general, though my ex was a total egg addict. We both agreed, however, that it was the tastiest, fluffiest eggs we had ever eaten. Because of the color and quantity of the yolk, the final result of this culinary experiment was a deep orange omelette about three inches thick.

We never thought about the egg much after that. We agreed that it must've been a bird egg that had fallen out of its nest and into the creek. There are many tall trees lining that stretch of Muncy Creek, and every once in a while we joked to friends that we had once feasted upon a bald eagle omelette. 

But, as time went on and more and more information became available (the internet was still pretty primitive back in 2003), I began to do more research and was surprised to learn that the eggs I had found were significantly larger and considerably rounder than those of the bald eagle or golden eagle. They seemed to be about the size of an ostrich egg, and it seemed plausible that some local farmer might've been raising ostriches and one of them might have gotten away. But every ostrich egg I've seen online has a yellow yolk, though they do tend to produce very round eggs, though I have yet to see one that was as perfectly spherical as the one I ate back in 2003.

Is it possible that long period of submersion in water could have turned the yolk red? Could the yolk have been red because of the bird's diet? I do not know enough about avian biology to know if this is the case. And I didn't live in Lycoming County long enough to find out if anyone was raising ostriches in the vicinity. 

At any rate, I'm still inclined to believe that someone's pet ostrich escaped and laid some eggs in Muncy Creek. That is the logical explanation, after all. Though part of me wonders if maybe, just maybe, I had eaten a dinosaur egg. Or perhaps the egg of some local cryptid. The mythical "thunderbird", for instance, has been spotted from time to time in Pennsylvania, and while the indigenous peoples told tales about these large winged creatures, very little has been said about the size of their eggs and the color of their yolks.

Ostriches, as we all know, are not native to North America, but in the early 2000s a fossil of a large, flightless ostrich-like bird was found in Wyoming. The ancient species, known as Calciavis grandei, was believed to roam the continent about 50 million years ago. Maybe a few of them are still out there, lurking in the wilderness of Pennsylvania.