The bird is as gray as its surroundings, with feathers that mirror the dove and pearl grays of the sky. The bird fits perfectly into November’s low-key, peaceful setting.
From its perch, it gives a low whistle and a matching bird joins it. The two sit high atop a cedar tree branch and regard me with bright beady black eyes, watching, waiting, hoping for a hand out.
Dick and I saw the birds last night, before the quickly deepening twilight took hold. They hovered nearby, clearly encouraging us to notice their presence, definitely interested in making our acquaintance.
I’d rummaged around the cabin’s make-shift kitchen table, searching for a goody, a hand-out with which to seal the friendship, but autumn dusk falls far too swiftly, and the jays suddenly disappeared into the forest as birds do.
This morning, I am ready for them, with a box of crackers.
I shred a whole-grain cracker into bird-beak size shards. The two gray jays watch intently from their perch. Careful not to spill my handouts, I step off the cabin deck and into the surrounding underbrush. The soft carpet of fallen leaves underfoot gives off a pleasant musty autumn scent.
The jays watch intently as I set the cracker pieces on an upturned tree root. If we were better acquainted, and they felt more comfortable with me, they probably would take the food from my hands.
But they are still wary and wait until I climb back on the deck before they swoop down and fill their beaks.
As I watch them flit back and forth, efficiently gathering all crumbs, I think about the many names by which they are known—whiskey jacks… camp robbers… Canadian jays… gray jays— and an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu overcomes me.
I am transported 43 years back in time to Tucker Lake where Dick and I spent a year. I am young again and stand behind the cabin near a huge white pine. I inhale the autumnal tang of fallen leaves and feel the slight chill in the air. A large gray jay lands on my outstretched hand and takes a bacon scrap in its beak. The other bird waits till I toss its food to the ground before scooping it up. The whiskey jacks, named Bonnie and Clyde, are part of our daily routine. I feel the excitement of living in the wilderness, of being in the woods.
But this is not Tucker Lake, and I am not a 20-yearold. I pull myself back to the present. I am four hours north into Canada, spending a weekend at my new cabin.
But there the differences end. Like Tucker Lake of 40 some years ago, my current cabin has no running water, no electricity and is remotely located. Same as Tucker Lake, it is not easily accessible; a long, torturous 20-mile gravel road must be traveled to reach it. As was true so long ago, I stand on the shore of a beautiful lake, Lac des Mille Lac that stretches its gray sheet of water to a distant horizon.
My husband and I are back where we belong, in the woods, relishing the beauty of the wilderness and welcoming the friendship of gray jays.
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