Mark Alan Wyatt's Obituary
“Big Mark”
Big Hat … Big Boots … Big Soft Bully … and an even Bigger Heart …
Mark Alan Wyatt was born on January 13th, 1959, in Oakland, California. He passed away on February 7th, 2026. The cause of Mark’s death was a stroke. Mark grew up in the city of Fremont, and would later live in Castro Valley, Livermore, and finally Hayward, California. He left this world peacefully.
When we were young, Mark once told me, “Bobby, you might be the oldest, but that doesn’t make you the leader.” Mark told both friends and family that he was the “older twin” … four minutes older than his twin brother, Mike. “Yep, I am the oldest- twin.” A mantra of sorts, he would remind us of this fact repeatedly throughout the years.
Mark was driven to measure up to dad’s expectations, not that the rest of us were not; but you see, Mark felt strongly that he needed to be older, that he had to lead- for dad. For Mark, our father’s validation pushed him to be a little taller … to be a little braver … and to stand his ground a little longer than the rest of us.
Mark would spend a good part of his life seeking to measure up to these expectations, even though over time they were recognized as little more than a shallow figment after dad’s death. This helped though, to create a strong work ethic, in which Mark did not fear big, arduous tasks that others might shun. He developed a reputation for taking these tasks on.
This fit perfectly with Mark’s persona: the big hat … the big boots … the big mountainous endeavor, driving an 18-wheeler up Highway 50 to Lake Tahoe in the snow. Followed by even bigger stories of his exploits over beer and darts at the pub! Mark drove a rig for over fifteen years for CWX. After the show, “Ice Road Truckers,” Mark once said, “I love that show … that is a picture of me …Brother, I am an Ice Road Trucker!”
Mark was not always so boisterous. When he was young, mom referred to him as, “the quiet one.” Mom would spy upon Mark as he sat under the Japanese Elm Tree in our backyard in Fremont, caring for our bird dog’s puppies- 8 litters over the years, 72 puppies in all; or while he was quietly sitting inside an open closet caring for a litter of kittens from our sister’s cat, “Crackers!”
Later in life however, Mark more often would exude that rambunctious side of his personality, the one that we all know too well: be it a Vikings game, the “Amazing A’s,” motocross at Sears Point, or tearing down the engine of a Bultaco 350 at the TT Scrambles. Mark was a Master Mechanic who could work on a myriad of both dirt and street bikes. He was also a competent diesel mechanic as well. Loud! … Boisterous! … giving orders at the races or bragging about baseball stats … it was hard not to pay attention when Mark spoke.
Aside from Mark’s brother Mike, most of us missed Mark loading his gear into his truck only to head off alone to go fishing. He would pack up tackle and take dad’s favorite “Wright and McGill” fishing rod, and then he would drive the GMC Stepside, which became Mark’s truck after our father died. This, the same truck that dad was driving when he passed away back in 1978.
He fished alone a lot. He fished with friends too, but those other times Mark went off to be with his “Pops.” He would toss a line into the surging waters of the American River … the Russian … the Stanislaus … Tiger Creek. Mark would also venture out on his own attempting to avoid his demons. Hopefully to find some peace from them.
Yes, it is true: Mark could be a little blind and reckless at times. However, he was the friend who would show up in the 11th hour and helped you start your car; or he would be moving your couch on a Sunday afternoon while others were comfortably watching football.
If Mark liked you even for 5 minutes, he would tell you his life story over a mug of beer. If on the other hand, he found fault with your claims, he could blurt out a harsh retort that caused everyone around him instant regret.
In short, Mark could oscillate between being a “Gentle Giant,” or a Grizzley Bear with a thorn in his paw. Quiet. Cantankerous. Lovable. If not true he would not say it … If not right he would not do it … well, most of the time.
He was patriotic. Hated politicians but loved his country. He respected the land, and those who bled for it. Mark once said of his nephew during a phone call: “Is it true that Joe is in Afghanistan?” Mark was told yes that his nephew was somewhere around Kandahar. There was a pause. Mark then said: “Tell Joe that he is a hero!”
He tried to put God first. He kept his word. He never forsook a friend.
During the past ten years, Mark endured six major surgeries. They never broke his spirit. He never gave up with the protocols and therapies that followed. He always looked to his future freedom, to go back fishing or to hill climb at Carnegie Park atop his Honda XL 350 “Thumper.”
Mark just wore out.
In the end, the deterioration of his body was too much for him. The time had arrived for Mark’s “release.”
Let these be our last words to Mark Alan Wyatt: as day fades into night; so too has your life faded into death. You had the strength of ten men. Through burden and joy, it has been our honor to have ridden through life with you. May you now journey through the eternities with grace and dignity.
What’s your fondest memory of Mark?
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