S. P. Trewin

New Jersey and died at home on January 25th, 2021 surrounded by loved ones, in front of

a fire that was kept at a dull roar.

He is preceded in death by his wife of 66 years Alice (Alix) Wild Trewin, his parents

Charles Sydney Trewin and Annette Van Mater Trewin, his sister Dana Trewin Wigton,

and granddaughter, Danielle Wild Trewin.

To his six boys–Charles Seymour Trewin, John Scott Trewin, Christopher Hood Trewin,

Todd Douglass Trewin, Parker Hunt Trewin and James Wood Trewin–he was larger than

life. He was a god who towered above at more than 6 feet, possessed rower’s shoulders,

jet black hair, roman lips, and brows which he could raise at will. He possessed a piercing

gaze and a chin that cast deep shadows in the noontime sun. His smooches were

legendary but hugs could be hard to find. He seldom cried, but wept openly at the loss of a

dog that was his constant companion and a frequent dinner table guest.

His wife referred to him as a cross between Abe Lincoln and Gregory Peck. To everyone

else he was epic Cecile B. Demille. Yet, Hollywood had nothing on him.

The wild blue yonder and the great outdoors were his callings and passions so he set his

sights both north and west landing with his bride outside of Redmond, Washington. It

was there where they settled into life together and built their future. It was from a spot on

a hill, called Rimrock, where he was happiest and where he remained for the rest of his

days. In all fairness the view was uncompromising–textured layers of cedar and fir rising

skyward to the mountains some fifty miles to the east.

From the time the sun crested over the Cascades until it crept over the backside of Union

Hill he built rough hewn temples that were a practical homage to the land and time that

he fell in love with.

And, so he built when the sun rose each morning until it set each evening. It’s where he

shined. As his boys played, he was at work raising barns, a livery, a blacksmith shop, a

coach house, a smokehouse, a ¾ scale fort, and a log cabin cut from trees on the farm.

And miles of fence lines.

While Rimrock was home, S.P. never lost his sense of adventure packing up his kids,

canoes, boats, backpacks–whether on horse, foot or skis–bound for this mountain, that

river or some lake that was fifty miles down a dusty dirt road. He loved the open air and

be damned if the whole kit and kaboodle wasn’t going along for the ride.

S.P. always said that in geological terms human life is but a blink of an eye. He made the

most of it. He lived through the Great Depression, served during the second world war,

married the love of his life and saw his boys raise children of their own expanding his

footprint on this earth. In the end, he lived to be 17 days shy of his hundredth birthday.

By God’s grace or any other measure, S.P. was granted a blink and a half.

For those that loved him we will be forever grateful.

A private graveside service is planned with a celebration at Rimrock to be announced

later.