Breakfast with a Canada Jay

This bird is also known as a Whisky Jack, a name I prefer, but the name it deserves best is Camp Robber.

For more than ten years, I camped on a small island on a small lake about 20 miles north of Kenora, Ontario.

We had to make a portage into the first lake and then paddle our canoes to an island on the next lake. We spent many weekends and an occasional week on the island while we fished the lakes.

 We were regularly visited by one or two Whisky Jacks.

They would land in the pine trees at our camp site and quickly spot anything edible. If any food was left even for a second, they would dive down from a treetop, land beside the target, and just as quickly grab it in their bill and take off. They stashed the food in the top of the pine trees on the island and quickly returned for more.

When we were cooking our meals we made a point of leaving a few pieces of bread on the top of a tree stump so they would concentrate on the bait and leave our other food alone.

One particular morning we were making our breakfast consisting of bacon and eggs along with coffee and toast. We had a log laid along some rocks as a seat where we ate our meals. I had just finished frying the eggs sunny side up and shoveled them onto our plates along with a number of pieces of bacon. Len had made the toast.

I handed Len his bacon and eggs and sat down to eat mine. Len sat near me then realized he failed to get his coffee. He got up and set the plate on the log while he walked a couple of paces to grab his mug. His plate was no more than three feet from where I was sitting

During the time we were preparing our breakfast we had one determined Whiskey Jack that was making many trips, hauling away the small pieces of bread we set out for him. When Len left his plate to get the toast the Jay dropped out of the nearby tree and landed on the edge of Len’s plate.

I was watching the Jay out of the corner of my eye but could not wave him off as I held my plate in one hand and my coffee in the other. In a normal voice I said, “Len, look at your plate.”

Len turned and saw the Jay and at that moment the Jay made a hop from the edge of the plate and landed with both feet right in the middle of the soft yolk of an egg. Len yelled and said, “Hey, leave my egg alone.

Before Len could make a move the Jay bent over and picked up the edge of the second fried egg in his bill and flew off across the lake to the mainland a short distance away. We were both amazed that the Jay was able to hold onto the slippery white portion of the egg and yet not bite right through it. Off he sped with an entire fried egg hanging down from his bill and soon disappeared into the woods. It appears the egg was fried to perfection, as far as the Jay was concerned.

I was still laughing when Len sat down to eat his one remaining egg with the footprints of a Jay in it.
This was our last day at camp so we had no more eggs and Len had to be satisfied with extra toast.