Bryan Daniel Trammell

Bryan Trammell was an early riser, waking up hours before first light to start his day, his wife, Amy, and son, Joseph James, still asleep in their beds. 

Awake before dawn, with the world still in darkness, and the mysteries of the day still unknown, was his favorite time to be. As with all early birds, Bryan was a creature of habit. Every morning, he brought a pot of water to a full boil, ground a handful of coffee beans, timing the brew impeccably so that by the time Amy awoke, she would have a fresh and steaming cup of coffee waiting for her. It was a sweet gesture, this morning ritual, one they cherished. 

Any act done with love makes it great, makes it beautiful, makes it a gift. By any other name, is this not a form of kindness? Bryan Trammell, known for his outsized generosity, his warmth and humor and sincerity, knew enough about love and beauty and reverence, recognizing the abundance of his own life, and the kind of father and husband and friend he wanted to be, that he made being kind, being grateful, being present, the point of his life. 

He was born on July 31, 1964, to Linda and James Trammell, and grew up with his brother, Brent, and sister, Beth, in Ada, Okla., on five acres of land. There was never a time in his life when Bryan was idle. It was not part of his nature; laziness was not in his blood. Bryan believed in work, and in working hard. The summer he was eleven years old, he was working at a full-time job, sweeping and maintaining a fireworks warehouse. 

He was smart as a whip, this son of Oklahoma, and gifted with a mechanical mind. He studied car engines, saw how beautifully they were made, learned how to dismantle an engine if only to apprehend how to put it back together, piece by piece. He was trained as a mechanic in high school and decided to be the best mechanic he could be. 

The best mechanic in the world is a Ferrari mechanic. And that’s what Bryan became, a top-rate, factory-trained fixer of Ferraris (and BMWs). Bryan excelled in diagnosis and was flown by wealthy clients all over the world to fix their expensive Ferraris. Declaring he wanted to be an expert mechanic was likely his first act of self-determination. 

But fixing Ferraris, as glamorous as the environs of the well-heeled, glittering class could be, was a solo act. Glamour, flashy cars, private jets: they were not enough for Bryan. They held no allure. They did not fascinate. What Bryan sought was community. The world of Information Technology appealed to him and he changed careers, finding IT work at Lockheed Martin. When he took a job at IBM, he met Robbie Braddock, who would become a friend and his mentor. Bryan would, over time, become a key member of Robbie’s team, following him from company to company: IBM, DXC, Cornerstone Building Brands, among others. 

Bryan lived in Houston for a time. He discovered rock-climbing and found a running community there. Houston was also where he met the love of his life, Amy Milkavich. 

When the couple moved to Colorado in 2005, the first thing Bryan did was join the Boulder Trail Runners, which hosts a run every day of the week on the mountain and foothill trails of Boulder and beyond — Monday Mellow Run, Thursday Happy Hour, Sunday Church Run. 

There was a small splinter group called the Special Idiots that formed out of BTR, and it is this motley, fun-loving crew of ultramarathon runners with whom Bryan found a sense of belonging. Though, truth be told, Bryan would have found a warm welcome anywhere. He had an easy way about him; he made friends easily. He was easy to approach, was a keen observer of life and of people, had a wicked sense of humor. Anyone in BTR or was a Special Idiot who got to know Bryan loved him, for he was easy to love. He had extraordinary recall, remembering things — forgettable, seemingly random things — from a conversation you might have had with him during a trail run, for he paid attention, he knew how to listen. He had such empathy. But Bryan was private, also, deeming certain things outside of what he was willing to share. 

He loved trail running, mountain biking, rock-climbing, found peace and joy in the mountains of Colorado. 

But of all the things he loved, the various affinities that made him who he was, none compared to being a father. He loved Joseph James more than life; he loved being his dad. Anything that piqued his son’s interest, any sport he wanted try — downhill mountain biking, running, surfing—Bryan was there. 

Joseph James discovered a love for flying; he has his sights on becoming a pilot. Bryan, ever the seeker of community, found a Boulder chapter of the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA, chapter 1627), a group comprised of pilots, mechanics, and aviation enthusiasts who enjoy building small aircraft. Until Bryan became too sick to make the trek, he and Joseph James spent every Saturday in a hangar in Boulder Regional Airport with the EAA crew, fiddling around airplanes, learning how they are made. Bryan might not have known the intricacies of an airplane, but he knew his way around an engine and was delighted to be able to teach his son how to get from point A to point B, from here to there, as though the engine were a roadmap, and he and Joseph James were finding their way in and out together. 

If Bryan was fierce about living — and he was, by all measures — he was fierce in his dying. He “raged against the dying light”, he put up a fight. “We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us,” as the poet Charles Bukowski writes. Bryan did not talk about his illness with any of his friends, illness being one of the things he could not share. 

Bryan was a senior project manager at Cornerstone Building Brands, and he kept working, through the cancer treatments and medical procedures, the stroke-like symptoms resulting from the tumors in his brain. His will to work, to provide for his family, was too strong in him. He kept on, even driving himself to treatment on a Thursday, gently refusing help from Amy. It was the last time he would drive. He passed away four days later on Monday, February 3, 2025. 

Those who knew Bryan Trammell, early riser, generous gift-giver, son of Oklahoma with his heart in the Rockies, a prince of Colorado’s running trails and mountain summits, and beloved among his friends and family and all the communities he belonged to, mourn his passing. We are shaken, helpless in our grief. There is little consolation for a loss as this but knowing Bryan, remembering his radiance, how beautifully he lived life, his reverence for it, and how he deeply he loved, we can only imagine the light in that room and oh, how death trembled when it came and took him. 

Services for Bryan will be held on Saturday, February 22nd at the Horan & McConaty Chapel in Arvada. Visitation will be from 10-11am with the service starting at 11am. Burial will be at 1pm at Green Mountain Cemetery in Boulder, CO. A reception will immediately follow the graveside service at Moxy Boulder located at 1247 Pleasant St., Boulder, CO 80302. For guests that would like to join the family at the cemetery, please leave no later than 12:15pm. We will not be in an escorted procession so please follow traffic laws to ensure everyone's safety.

For those who are unable to attend, the funeral service and graveside service will be livestreamed. Please view the link below.

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field 

By Mary Oliver 

Coming down 

out of the freezing sky 

with its depths of light, 

like an angel, 

or a buddha with wings, 

it was beautiful 

and accurate, 

striking the snow and whatever was there 

with a force that left the imprint 

of the tips of its wings— 

five feet apart—and the grabbing 

thrust of its feet, 

and the indentation of what had been running 

through the white valleys 

of the snow— 

and then it rose, gracefully, 

and flew back to the frozen marshes, 

to lurk there, 

like a little lighthouse, 

in the blue shadows— 

so I thought: 

maybe death 

isn’t darkness, after all, 

but so much light 

wrapping itself around us— 

as soft as feathers— 

that we are instantly weary 

of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, 

not without amazement, 

and let ourselves be carried, 

as through the translucence of mica, 

to the river 

that is without the least dapple or shadow— 

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light— 

in which we are washed and washed 

out of our bones.