Everyone who visited Baxter State Park this past Columbus Day weekend must have exclaimed what we did several times over: “What incredible weather! Can you believe it’s the middle of October – in Baxter?!”

Conditions were perfect for just about everything. Mt. Katahdin was visible clear to the very top almost all day every day, and we figured there would be a rush of people tackling its challenging trails on this last weekend of the season.

We had reserved a cabin at Kidney Pond and were content to climb humble Sentinel Mountain, skim around the pond in a kayak, and bird watch while hiking the many gentle trails in the area.

Actually, we didn’t even have to leave the cabin to see birds – the birds found us. More accurately, they found our food; and it mattered not one whit to them that park rules were against wildlife being fed. Acting as if they had a right to it, they boldly helped themselves at the slightest chance – and got away with it.

Those of you who have spent time in Baxter’s campgrounds in autumn, or in any part of the north woods throughout the United States and Canada, will know what bird I am talking about. It has many nicknames: gorbie, whiskey jack, and camp robber are probably the most often used. I’m talking, of course, about the gray jay – otherwise called the Canada jay.

Those of you unfamiliar with this bird may think it similar to the more common blue jay, but in fact it could not be more different. Its head lacks the crest of a blue jay’s and its plumage lacks the hue. Instead it is dressed much more demurely in gray and white, with a coal-black patch at the back of its head. Picture a giant black-capped chickadee and you get the idea.

This bird has a traditional reputation for being unafraid of humans. Ora Willis Knight, in his 1908 book “The Birds of Maine,” wrote, “They are among the tamest, most imprudent and unsuspicious birds imaginable.”

This is true especially if they find they can obtain food from us. They have been known to fly into tents and cabins, and alight on canoes (and people) to inspect – and steal – food. A large volume of folklore surrounds this jay, mostly dealing with the idea of reincarnation and dating back nearly 100 years. Some woodsmen thought of the jay as an embodiment of their deceased fellows.

They never denied the bird food, and myths abound about the dire consequences that would befall anyone who harmed the bird. The gray jay’s real life history resembles myth more than reality.

In late winter, while temperatures are still below freezing and blizzards coat the land with more than a foot of snow, it lays its eggs, incubates them, and broods and raises its young. They can do this, in part, because of their incredible ability to locate and horde enormous quantities of food.

Knowing all this, I could not resent their filching of our foodstuffs at our campsite.