The Wrights Bros.
William Creek, South Australia
“You’ll be flying with the Wright brothers,” says Kent, archly. “Trevor Wright owns and runs the hotel. He basically owns and runs the entire town, too.”
William Creek is our next stop over. About half-way from Oodnadatta to Marree, and half-way from Adelaide to Alice Springs.
Kent is keen to get to William Creek. Even on the unsealed track we’ve been following since Marree (“No more bitumen ‘til Coober Pedy,” he said as we hit the yellow dirt road), he’s sitting on 110km. That’s fast for laid-back Kent.
He’s keen to get to William Creek – or WC, as the km-posts say, and never a truer abbreviation has there been! – because it’s Final Day. He scans the car radio which swings in and out of range for any news. Freemantle and Hawthorn are slugging it out for the Aussie Rules Cup, the climax to the season.
When, eventually, we pull up outside the William Creek Hotel, we walk into the bar to be met by a dozen or so travellers and locals all staring at the television. It’s three-quarter’s time. Kent’s happy. He’ll see the end of the match, which the rest of us watch numbly = pretending we know what the hell is going on.
The William Creek Hotel pretty much is William Creek. It was built in 1887 to service the now-derlict Ghan railway line that travelled between Alice and Adelaide (the Old Ghan, as it’s called now).
To call WC a one-horse town is unfair. There are a few other buildings, there’s a camp ground, and also the cluster of chalets for the hotel guests ... theses are converted portacabins with aircon, fridge, comfortable bed, TV, shower and loo. Decent accommodation for a town in the middle of nowhere. A lot better than the previous night in a town which shall remain nameless.
We’re shown to our cabins by Trevor himself. He rides a quad around the small town like he owns the place. Which he does, as we know. Trevor is a softly-spoken Aussie, with a warm pinched squint in the late-afternoon sun. Deep creases in his leathery skin. Kind-eyes. He pats the head of Burt, his adopted tame dingo. I like Trevor immediately.
As well as the hotel, Trevor runs Wrightsair ... a collection of three single-prop light-aircraft which can be hired out for Scenics to Lake Eyre and the Painted Hills for tourists, and is also the local bus-service, freight-service, and (as we see) coffin-delivery service, too.
We’d planned a flight to see the vast salt lake that is Lake Eyre for the following morning, but Trevor has other ideas. He looks up at the clear, deepening sky and rubs his chin. He says it’s so beautiful at the moment, and the light would be perfect over the Lake, that we could maybe go up right now, if we wanted. It takes a nano-second to agree.
Just before the hotel as you approach from the south along the Oodnadatta Track, is a very smart airstrip – its pink bitumen and white lines, and spangled apron lighting are a far cry form the usual dirt-tack airstrips of the outback. When we arrive, Trevor and his brother Adam are already taking the door off the Cessna so we can shoot some aerial footage. Adam looks just like his brother. He spends the summer here, helping out. It’s Adam who will fly us to the lake.
“Any other safety information for the guys?” Trevor asks Adam after he’s given us some brief do’s and don’ts.
“Yeah,” says Adam. “Just don’t fucking fall out. I’d be doing the paper-work for the rest of my life.”
I am secured in the back of the plane with straps and gaffer tape. Everyone else has nice, comfortable sheepskin seats. But on take-off, I’m rewarded with the best views ever. Low over the salt lake, the sky turns crimson. The lake reflects grey, mauve and purple. Some cliffs on the lake edge ping-out orange as they catch the sun.
We circle the lake for half an hour, as the sun dips behind the far-off horizon, and then head back towards William Creek. The air rushes in through the open aircraft door, yet I have rarely felt such peace and quiet. It feels unreal.
The ceiling of the William Creek Hotel bar