I’ve got to tell you about my first up-close and personal encounter with Whiskey Jack.

It happened last weekend, way back in the woods.

A gaggle of friends headed north to Rockwood for the annual birthday celebration of our mutual friend, Karen Francoeur of Orono. Familial and farm animal obligations kept three couples close to home, but a determined bunch of us pressed on with the plan to spend a couple of days playing in the snow and soaking in the hot tub, sort of a fire and ice thing.

We’ve been making this pilgrimage to The Birches for at least four years now, and each year there’s been a different adventure in store. Last year, owner John Willard, added a wood-fired hot tub to his long list of offerings, and our gang got to have the inaugural soak, right out on the ice of Moosehead Lake in front of our cabins – not the most private of settings. It proved quite an attraction for the alcohol-lubricated testosterone set and their snowmobiles. At one point in their evening rut, they circled the tub, smoke-billowing engines revving. Barely audible through face-masked helmets were cat calls and guttural grunts. The objects of affection, unbeknownst to them, were two young men submerged to their shoulders, their heads just visible above the edge of the tub.

The whining machines disappeared quickly into the night, however, when the word got out that it wasn’t female flesh that was warming more than the cockles of their hearts – See, ya later boys!

This year we had a superb rental house, away from the hubbub of the main lodge. The hot tub, which is mounted on skids, was dragged over and put on the front lawn overlooking the lake and Mount Kineo – very peaceful. We all got our chance to soak in peace and quiet. The hot water helped ease some of the pain in my sore leg muscles from having toured during the day on cross-country skis.

Our intrepid band included Willard, Francoeur and her son Ryan, Robert Causey and friend Pammi Poisson, and Andrea Iverson of Washington. Her good friend Dan Reny opted to do some touring on his snowmobile – and why not?

We had several false starts requiring quick trips up to the main lodge for rental equipment (someone – me – brought the wrong ski boots, and someone else – Andrea -had brand new skis and bindings from a well-known store south of here that didn’t fit her boots). It was good that we had to make a second trip back to the lodge. I’d left a pair of gloves there the first time.

Willard and Francoeur gave us the option of destinations and we voted unanimously for the closer of the two – the Three Sisters yurt, about three miles out. We’d light a fire in the wood stove, have lunch then head back. Like a slow-moving freight train we were off! I was the dragging anchor on this voyage, but everyone was understanding and would stop occasionally to let me catch up or pick myself out of a snow bank. My salvation was knowing something about the trail and when we were getting close to our destination. It’s the same yurt my wife and daughter and I stayed in one night a few winters ago.

As we arrived and started taking off our skis, someone pointed upward. That’s when I saw Whiskey Jack (a.k.a. Gray Jay or Camp Robber). Actually, there were two, perched on branches above our heads. I dropped my pack and extracted binoculars to get a better view. While not a wildly-colored bird, this member of the crow (Corvidae) family is beautiful in its own way, resembling an overgrown Chickadee. Since we’d seen very little in the way of wildlife I figured I’d study this visitor from afar.

I was beginning to feel a crick develop in my neck when Francoeur and Willard said the birds were usually friendly and most likely would beg food. So I took a piece of pita bread and stood outside the yurt like a statue holding the morsel at arm’s length clucking to them as if calling a horse.

Despite my gruesome noises they swooped down to land on skis stuck in the snow nearby and eyeballed me curiously before flitting up and grabbing my offering. It wasn’t long before the two were taking turns landing on my finger, grabbing as much as their beaks would hold, then flitting off to eat or store their treasure.

All of us took turns offering these newfound friends bread and cheese, occasionally from atop our hats.

Aside from the good fellowship of gathered friends, this feeding frenzy was the highlight of the trip for me. I don’t know why I’ve never had the opportunity to meet these critters before, but this encounter was uplifting. So much so that when I got back to work I did a little searching on the Web and found these items that substantiate most of what I observed.

. Gray Jays are a fluffy, pale-gray, long-tailed, short-billed, crestless jay. Perisoreus canadensis is 11.5 inches long and has a wingspan of 18 inches or slightly larger than a robin. Normal adult weight is 2.5 ounces.

. One of the most interesting traits of the Gray Jay is its food storage ability. This Jay has unusually large salivary glands that produce copious sticky saliva. They use this saliva to impregnate and encase food, creating a bolus that will adhere to trees. Away from ground scavengers and protected from the wind and snow, these caches allow efficient food hoarding. Gray Jays have been observed making more than 1,000 caches in a single 17-hour day. This behavior may be the major adaptation enabling it to occupy the hostile boreal regions during the winter. Fittingly, the genus Perisoreus means “hoarder.”

. Gray Jays are omnivorous, commonly eating arthropods, berries, carrion, eggs, nestling birds, and fungi. Gray. Jays use a variety of foraging techniques including fly catching, foliage gleaning, ground gleaning, and even aerial pursuit of rodents. Nestlings are fed partially digested food.

. And just where did that name come from? According to one Web site Native Americans knew this bird as “wiss-ka-tjon” or “wis-ka-chon.” In lumbering days the Jay would visit the lumberjacks in the northern forests of Canada. In turn, the lumberjacks shared their grub with it and came to call it “Whiskey-Jack.”

Jeff Strout can be reached at 990-8202 or by e-mail at jstrout@bangordailynews.net