Part 1 in a 3 Part Series by Jacob McMurtry

My first contact with SquirrelJumper came, as it does for so many of us, when I found a squirrel in my backyard. We tried everything to get rid of that crafty little bugger: from traps to treats, yelling to pleading. Just when we were on the verge of giving up and moving to a new place, a co-worker told me about SquirrelJumper.com's website, and how happy she had been with their results. I was a bit skeptical at first, but willing to try just about anything to get rid of the pest. Well, needless to say, I gave them a call, and in less than 24 hours they had jumped the squirrel. We were so amazed by their speed and professionalism, that I wanted to find out more about the rare breed of men and women who wear the blue coveralls of SquirrelJumper. I was able to arrange a meeting with President and CEO Steve Berkintof, and he assured me that it would be no problem if I wanted to tag along with an experienced jumper. For one glorious day I rode shotgun with Merle Winston, a 2nd class jumper with years of experience, and learned the ins and outs of the business. What follows is simply an ordinary day in the life of an extraordinary person.

Merle Winston was born in Yakima, Wa., during the summer of love in 1967. He was an only child, described by many as restless and agitated. Known to sit in the backyard for hours, talking to his special friends, Merle initially had trouble getting close to his classmates and Pee-Wee hockey teammates. No one could argue with his grades however, and when he graduated early from Yakima High, he was granted early acceptance to Brown and a full academic scholarship in their accelerated School of Business. Graduating in 1987, with the world seemingly at his feet, Merle tried a bit of everything. He was a model, corporate consultant, pop recording star for Sony records, and the night manager at a Denny’s just north of Sacramento off of Interstate 80. But these types of jobs were not enough for him. Often the late night fry man would find him crouched behind the meat locker, talking as if to no one. Then one night, at the house of longtime friend Billy Ray Cyrus, a squirrel leaped into the middle of the banquet table, terrorizing the guests with his steely glare and razor sharp teeth. Merle was the only one not frightened, he slowly moved toward the squirrel, speaking to it just as he had in his backyard in Yakima, and then in the blink of an eye he had jumped the squirrel. Word of the jumping was on every reputable news program from Entertainment Tonight to Access Hollywood, and in papers from the Weekly World News to The Yakima Herald-Republic. When Steve Berkintof, a devoted E.T. viewer, heard the miraculous tale, he knew he had found his man. Within a week, Merle was invited in for a tryout, and proved to be a natural. As he moved up the ranks, from Cleaner, to Jumper 3rd Class, all the way up to a Jumper 2nd Class, it was clear that Merle Winston had found his niche.

When I arrived at SquirrelJumper headquarters, bright and early on a Monday morning, I knew I was in for a treat. There was Merle, laying out the equipment for the day: I recognized the nets, lures, and padding that a lay person might use to jump a squirrel, but there were complex apparatus the likes of which I had never seen. I wanted to ask Merle about all of them, but he seemed to be in a trance like state as he reverently polished each item and set it in its place in the truck. It wasn’t until everything was ready to go that he even noticed my presence next to him. “You must be the reporter they told me about.,” he said. “The name is Merle Winston, but you can call me Skippy, everyone else does.” At 34, the looks that made him a top fashion model on the Paris catwalk were still there, but it was the eyes that really caught my attention. Behind that steely blue glare, there was so much pain, so much knowledge, it almost took my breath away. “Mister Wi…I mean Skippy, my name is Jacob, and it really is an honor to meet you.,” I stammered. There was a brief silence as he looked me up and down, he nodded, grunted, and we were on our way.

Riding in the company Wagoneer, listening to the soft sounds of Young Country on the AM radio, Merle began to tell me his story. As he spoke of his childhood, the pain in his voice and in his eyes seemed to pierce my very soul. But when Ol’ Skippy got to his days at Squirreljumper, the man just seemed to change. He was only halfway through his early days as a rookie jumper, when we got our first call.

Part II in this series will be posted soon.