The Grandmother Knows: The Haunting Disappearance of Gus Lamont on South Australia’s Remote Outback Station

In the vast, unforgiving expanse of South Australia’s Mid North, where red dust clings to everything and the horizon stretches endlessly under a relentless sun, a four-year-old boy’s disappearance has gripped the nation. Augustus “Gus” Lamont vanished without a trace on September 27, 2025, from his family’s remote sheep station near Yunta, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions, shattered hopes, and a community forever changed. As the search officially winds down, the words of Gus’s grandmother echo like a chilling refrain: “I just turned around, and he was gone.” This is the story of a child who slipped into the outback’s silence, and the relentless quest to uncover what the red earth has hidden.

Oak Park Station, a sprawling 60,000-hectare property about 43 kilometres south of the tiny town of Yunta—population 60— is the kind of place where isolation is both a way of life and a harsh reality. Located roughly 300 kilometres north-east of Adelaide, the homestead sits amid rugged bushland, saltbush plains, and dry creek beds that twist like veins through the arid landscape. It’s a working sheep farm, passed down through generations of the Murray family, Gus’s maternal grandparents. Here, children grow up hardy, exploring the property on foot or atop ATVs, familiar with the dangers of dingoes, snakes, and sudden drops into dry gullies. But on that fateful spring afternoon, the outback claimed one of its youngest.

It was around 5pm on Saturday, September 27—a warm, clear evening with temperatures hovering in the mid-20s Celsius—when tragedy unfolded. Gus, a shy yet adventurous toddler with long blond curls, bright blue eyes, and an infectious smile, was last seen playing on a mound of red dirt just outside the homestead. His grandmother, Josie Murray, 71, had glanced out the kitchen window moments earlier. “He was right there, shovelling sand like he always does, in his little grey sun hat, blue T-shirt with that yellow Minion on it, light-grey pants, and boots,” she later recounted to police, her voice breaking in a media briefing that would tug at heartstrings nationwide. Gus was with his one-year-old brother, Robbie, under the casual watch of family members scattered around the property. His mother, Jessica Murray, 28, was inside preparing dinner, while his father, Joshua Lamont, 32—a former frontman for indie rock band The Cut Snakes—lived separately about 100 kilometres away in Belalia North but was in regular contact.

Josie stepped away for mere minutes to tend to chores. When she returned, Gus was gone. “I called for him, but there was no answer,” she said, her words carrying the weight of a grandmother’s guilt that no outpouring of public support could fully ease. The family fanned out immediately, calling his name into the gathering dusk. By nightfall, with no sign of the boy, they dialled triple zero. What followed was one of the largest and most protracted missing persons operations in South Australian history—a desperate race against the outback’s merciless clock.

South Australia Police (SAPOL) mobilised swiftly, treating the case as a potential “wander-away” incident rather than foul play from the outset. The remote location made abduction unlikely; the nearest public road is kilometres away, and the property’s isolation—flanked by unsealed tracks and vast emptiness—offered little cover for outsiders. “This is a stoic family, but they’re traumatised beyond words,” said Assistant Commissioner Ian Parrott during an October 3 press conference. Over the next 10 days, more than 200 personnel descended on Oak Park: SAPOL officers, Australian Defence Force (ADF) troops, State Emergency Service (SES) volunteers, and local farmers on horseback and quad bikes. They combed an initial 95 square kilometres on foot, expanding to 470 square kilometres in total—a search area larger than some inner-city suburbs.

Technology was thrown at the problem with grim determination. Infrared drones scanned for heat signatures at night, their ghostly images revealing nothing but the flickering eyes of wildlife. Specialist divers plumbed nearby dams and water tanks, fearing Gus might have tumbled into one of the hidden hazards. Police dogs, trained to detect human scent, crisscrossed the terrain, their handlers battling dust storms that reduced visibility to metres. Helicopters with thermal imaging hovered overhead, while ground teams methodically gridded the land, marking off sectors with coloured tape. Volunteers like Jason O’Connell, an 11-year SES veteran, logged over 1,200 kilometres on foot and vehicle, his boots caked in the same red soil Gus loved to play in. “We turned over every rock, checked every rabbit burrow,” O’Connell told The Advertiser. “Farm kids like Gus know this land, but at four, he’s no match for it.”

Yet, as days turned to weeks, hope ebbed. A promising lead—a small boot print discovered in a dry creek bed 500 metres from the homestead—was ruled out after forensic analysis confirmed it belonged to an adult. Missed search grids from the initial chaos were revisited, but yielded no clothing scraps, no discarded hat, no signs of struggle. By October 7, the operation scaled back to a “recovery mission,” with police admitting the chances of finding Gus alive had plummeted. “We’ve done absolutely everything we can,” Parrott said, his voice heavy. The family, described as “co-operating fully,” remained at the homestead, supported by victim contact officers. Joshua Lamont issued a brief statement: “We’re devastated, but we won’t stop believing.” Public grief swelled; South Australians were urged to “leave a light on for Gus,” with hundreds of porch lights glowing in solidarity.

Three weeks in, on October 14, a glimmer reignited. Taskforce Horizon—a dedicated investigative unit—was established, incorporating advice from international survival experts. The search resumed in a new sector, guided by fresh intel: satellite data from NASA’s Landsat program, analysing subtle changes in vegetation and soil disturbance invisible to the human eye. “We’re looking where we couldn’t before,” explained Detective Superintendent Des Zito. ADF personnel returned with upgraded infrared drones, capable of penetrating dust clouds, while ground teams focused on overlooked “dead zones”—areas shielded by acacia thickets or rocky outcrops. But even this renewed push, covering an additional 50 square kilometres, ended on October 17 with no breakthroughs. “Police had been hopeful, but this has not been the case,” SAPOL stated, hearts sinking once more.

Theories have swirled like the outback whirlwinds. Abduction? Unlikely, given the lack of tyre tracks or witnesses; fact-checkers debunked viral images of a “suspicious man” carrying a curly-haired child as fabricated deepfakes. Human error? Early disorganisation meant some grids were searched twice, others skipped, a frustration voiced by volunteers. Survivalist Michael Atkinson, runner-up on Alone Australia, insisted Gus could still be alive, citing the boy’s familiarity with the land and farm kids’ resilience: “He’s out there, waiting.” Darker whispers—conspiracy claims implicating the family—have been slammed as “despicable” by locals who know the Murrays and Lamonts as “kind and truthful.” A family friend, Alex Thomas, a former neighbour, pleaded for compassion: “This trauma is inflicting wounds that may never heal.”

Beneath the facts lies a deeper ache. Gus’s mother, Jessica, pictured for the first time since the disappearance looking hollow-eyed and resolute, has shouldered online vitriol alongside her grief. The family dynamics—Joshua’s separate life, whispers of a “trans grandmother” in tabloid speculation—have only amplified the pain, though police have found no evidence of discord. Peterborough Mayor Ruth Whittle captured the communal sorrow: “We’re all parents here; it doesn’t matter if you’re in Yunta or Broome—this hurts.” Even retired detective Charlie Bezzina, who led the William Tyrrell probe, offered condolences: “Police have left no stone unturned.”

As October’s chill settles over the outback, Taskforce Horizon shifts to long-term forensics: DNA sweeps of burrows, geological surveys for sinkholes, and public appeals for dashcam footage from the Barrier Highway. The Lamonts cling to fragments—a curly-haired photo on the mantel, a tiny shovel by the dirt mound. Josie Murray’s final glimpse haunts them all: a boy at play, then nothing but dust.

Gus Lamont’s story isn’t just a missing persons file; it’s a mirror to our vulnerabilities in Australia’s wild heart. The outback doesn’t give up secrets easily, but neither will those who loved him. If you have information, contact SAPOL on 131 444. Because in the silence of the red plains, answers wait—buried, perhaps, but not forgotten.