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Craig LaBorde Photography, Baton Rouge, LA (2026)

01/13/2026

Sunrise Surprise

The frost-bitten morning air stung my lungs as I stepped out of the car at Lake Martin, Louisiana, camera bag slung over my shoulder. The temperature had dipped into the low 20s, and my fingers, even in gloves, were already stiff. I had heard tales of the vivid sunrises here, where the water mirrors the sky in an explosion of fiery hues, and I was eager to capture it.

What I didn’t know was that I’d miscalculated. Sunrise at Lake Martin required a boat to position yourself beyond the dense cypress trees standing sentinel on the horizon. I didn’t have a boat, just my determination.

I trudged to the end of a narrow spit of land that jutted into the lake. Even there, the cypress giants blocked my view of the horizon. Insects stirred around me with soft morning chirps, and the occasional buzz of dragonflies broke the stillness. Nearby, a group of kayakers pushed off from the dock, their oars slicing the water in rhythmic splashes. They were off to photograph wildlife: herons, woodpeckers, and perhaps even the large alligators lurking beneath the surface.

Deflated, I prepared to pack up when one of the kayakers called out, “Look behind you!”

I turned, and my breath caught. The sky behind me was painted in an array of colors: deep purples fading to fiery oranges, all silhouetting the cypress trees draped in Spanish moss. The moss swayed gently in the breeze as seagulls soared overhead.

Bathed in the light of a sun I couldn’t see yet, the tops of the trees began to glow. Slowly, the light crept downward, gilding the trunks until the sun fully emerged, illuminating the lake in soft golden light. I stood frozen, my hands numb from the cold, unable to tear myself away from the scene.

I didn’t get the picture I’d planned, but I left with something better: a reminder to look around and embrace the unexpected. Beauty, I realized, isn’t always where we expect to find it.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

06/21/2025

Surprise in the Fog

Waking at 3:30am in Baton Rouge, I stepped outside and looked up—clear skies with just a few clouds. Perfect. I poured a steaming mug of Community Coffee, grabbed an apple, and hit the road toward Lake Dauterive near Loreauville.

The Interstate was nearly empty at that hour. I made great time, exiting to follow winding country roads through harvested sugar cane fields. Good thing I’d finished most of my coffee—the roads were rough and full of potholes from heavy farm equipment. Still dark, I neared the lake as the eastern sky began to glow faintly... but then the fog rolled in.

At the lake, I grabbed my gear and carefully walked to the end of a decaying structure stretching over the water—nails like fangs, boards missing underfoot. But the fog had thickened, completely blocking the sunrise I’d driven two hours to capture. I waited, hoping for a breeze, for something. Nothing.

Disappointed, I packed up and began the long drive home. Two miles down the road, something caught my eye. A glow brightened in the mirror. I stopped. Through the thinning fog, I saw an old fence post silhouetted by the rising sun. I grabbed my camera, stood in the middle of the road, and framed the shot.

Click. Click. Click.

Back home, I uploaded the photos. One stood out—the post, fog swirling around it, sun just above the horizon. Serene. Unexpected. Perfect. It now hangs on my wall, a daily reminder: beauty hides in simplicity. You just have to see it.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

05/18/2025

True symmetry!

The morning I set out to photograph the sunrise over the Amite River, I had no idea I’d be returning with something far more chilling. I’d followed Hoo Shoo Too Road to its end, where the trees rise tall and silent. But the road ahead was flooded—uncrossable. I parked at the water’s edge, the sun just beginning to climb above the treeline. Alone, with only Witchy Woman playing softly on the radio, I sipped the last of my coffee and thought about heading home.

As I put the truck in reverse, a glint caught my eye—sunlight hitting something delicate in the ditch. A spider web. It shimmered like a tiny constellation, perfect and still. I'm not fond of spiders, but I admire their artistry. I grabbed my camera and spotted a piece of driftwood I could use to cross without getting wet.

Balancing carefully, I edged out onto the wood, framing the spider in its web—click, click, click! The moment was magic. I turned to step back when I froze. Another web. A bigger one. Just a foot away. And in the center, a massive, hairy spider. Waiting.

My breath caught. One more step, and I’d have worn that monster like a mask. Heart pounding, I leapt off the driftwood and scrambled back to the truck. I didn’t relax until I was home, safe, dry, and reviewing the photos.

Zooming in on the web’s precision, I felt awe—and unease. Out there in the quiet morning, I’d brushed up against something ancient, meticulous, and watching. The beauty was undeniable. But so was the lurking terror woven just beside it.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

05/10/2025

Capturing the unexpected....

One lazy summer afternoon, I was sitting at home when I heard a faint rumble of thunder coming from the backyard, toward the small six-acre pond behind my house. I knew from experience the clouds sometimes turned fierce before a storm, and I was hoping to catch something dramatic. I grabbed my camera gear and headed out to the small wooden pier at the water’s edge.

The thunder grew louder as I waited, and I spotted distant lightning arcing through thickening clouds. The storm was coming. But the clouds still looked pretty dull—just dark and heavy. I held out hope for that one epic shot. Then, out of nowhere, a solid wall of rain rushed forward, like an offensive line clearing the way for the star running back. No dramatic sky shot—just a downpour. I sprinted back to the house, heart pounding, soaked and frustrated. I wasn’t about to risk my gear.

Inside, the storm unleashed its fury. Thunder crashed like cannon fire, and lightning strobed the sky like one of my daughter’s dance recital lights. Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Five minutes of chaos—and silence.

Suddenly, an orange glow lit the backyard. I grabbed my camera again and stepped onto the pier. The air was dead calm, the pond's surface as still as glass. Above me, the clouds were like nothing I’d ever seen—bulging, rounded, glowing orange-yellow. Their eerie shapes hung low and were perfectly mirrored in the still water. I snapped away, breathless with awe.

Later, I learned they were mammatus clouds, rare formations that follow powerful storms. I’ve weathered countless thunderstorms, but that image—those clouds, that calm, that light—hangs on my wall to this day, a perfect reminder of nature’s unpredictable magic.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

05/04/2025

A Belle River sunset

As soon as we got home from work, Nette and I jumped in the truck and headed down I-10, chasing the sun toward Belle River. Traffic was thick—rush hour chaos—but my mind was already far from the city. When we crested the Sunshine Bridge over the Mississippi River, the road finally opened up. The country breathed us in, and I felt my pulse rise. We were going to make it. And the sky looked promising—colors already beginning to deepen.

We rolled down that familiar little road lined with fishing camps, each with a long pier reaching into the river. Memories came flooding back—our old camp, the kids splashing off the pier, fishing poles baited with worms, crispy fried bream, lawn chairs, cold drinks, and 70’s tunes playing while the world melted away.

I pulled over, grabbed my camera, and stepped out. The smell of chicken and sausage on a nearby grill hit me like a wave—almost enough to make me forget why I came. But I pressed on to the water’s edge and found my spot—framed between two cypress trees, Spanish moss swaying gently in the breeze. A small pier stretched out before me.

I waited as a boat’s hum faded upriver. Then, the sun sank low, and the sky ignited—flames of orange and gold near the horizon, fading into deep blue above. I clicked the shutter.

Nette stood beside me, holding hands, and together we soaked it in. Time slowed. Stress vanished. The moment was perfect—just like the ones we used to have. Darkness finally came, and we climbed back in the truck to find a bite to eat on the way home.

Now, that photo hangs on our wall. It reminds me of the peace we once knew—and the dream that maybe, one day, we’ll have a camp there again.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

05/03/2025

The Heron at Dawn

I woke at 3:30 a.m., driven by a whisper—some call it madness, but I call it calling. Coffee brewed like a ritual, steam curling into the early silence. Two hours on winding Louisiana roads led me to the western edge of Lake Palourde. The world was still asleep, the sky ink-black, save for the faintest glow eastward.

Shouldering my camera gear, I walked to the water's edge. The air hugged me, warm and damp, laced with the ghost of a distant woodfire. No wind, no bugs—just the hum of awakening outboard motors far across the lake. Fishermen chasing trophies. Me? I hunted light.

The horizon grew, orange bleeding into the clouds. No purples, no fiery reds—just orange. It wasn't the canvas I imagined, yet still beautiful in its quiet way. I lingered longer than usual, wrapped in the hush of morning, until—wings.

A beat of silence broken by the soft thunder of feathers. I froze. A Great Blue Heron, regal and silent, landed atop a cypress tree before me. No invitation needed—he joined me in reverence. Slowly, I raised my lens, the shutter whispering thanks. Four frames, then he soared, gliding to the shallows for breakfast.

I stayed a moment more. The journey complete, I returned home, weary but fulfilled. Later, on my screen, there he was—my wild companion, immortalized in the golden light. That picture now hangs on my wall, a reminder: beauty waits for those who listen, and sometimes, you're not alone when you greet the dawn.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

04/27/2025

Rigging Beauty!

The fishing trip was never meant to be a pilgrimage. Yet something inside me insisted—bring the camera.
Evening unraveled slowly across Bayou Lafourche, and Dulac softened under the sinking sun. Shrimp boats lined the boardwalk like weary kings after a long Mardi Gras parade, their rigging etched against the bleeding sky. The air shimmered with the scent of fresh shrimp, the low murmur of tired voices, the sigh of water against old hulls. A breeze, light as a mother's hand, brushed my cheek, carrying with it the deep, wet breath of the marsh.
The world was on fire, and I was unarmed.
I ran—through the fishing camp, up the narrow stairs, back again with the camera pounding against my ribs like a second heart. Breathless, I stood among the boats, lifted the lens, and drank in the dying light.
Click, click, click.
Sunset threaded itself through ropes and masts, stitching gold into weathered wood and salt-stained steel.
And in that golden hour, the boats began to speak—not in words, but in questions:
How many storms had they seen claw at the decks?
How many prayers had been whispered into roaring winds?
How many hands had mended these nets, bled on these rails, sung into the night?
Each click of the shutter tried to catch the answers, but they slipped through like mist.
The light surrendered to twilight. I lowered the camera, let the darkness bloom around me, and listened to the harbor breathe. I stood there until the mosquitoes drove me inside, back to the waiting hush of the camp.
The photograph still hangs on my wall—a quiet relic of a night when the old boats, the restless bayou, and the bruised sky told me stories no one else could hear.
www.craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

04/13/2025

The Old Pushboat

I drove an hour and a half to find her—half-sunken and silent, the old pushboat resting in the shallows at the north end of Lake Pontchartrain. She wasn’t forgotten, not by time at least. Time had tried—tried with hurricanes, with vandals and fire, with years of unrelenting sun and wave—but she held on, stubborn and proud.

I stepped lightly over the erosion rocks, careful with each step. The breeze kept the bugs down, and above me, gulls danced in the gray-blue sky, diving for their breakfast. From the nearby boat launch, outboards roared to life, their sound slicing through the quiet, their scent—oil, gas, and lake water—wrapped around me like memory.

Framing the shot, I crouched low, lining her hull against the morning light. She leaned in the water like a tired soul, but still she stood. As the shutter clicked, I imagined her voice: gravelly, patient, worn from telling stories. Tales of cargo and crew, of storms survived, of nights adrift under starlit skies. I wished she could speak.

And then I realized—she was speaking. Not in words, but in rusted steel, in scorched scars, in her refusal to disappear. She had endured. She endures.

As I packed up, I lingered a moment longer. Her lesson settled quietly in my chest: we all get weathered. But like her, we anchor in, endure the waves, and wait for the sun to return.

Sometimes, survival is the story.
https://craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

04/12/2025

The "Diamond Ring"
I had waited seven long years for this. Ever since my daughter and I witnessed the 2017 eclipse, I was hooked. So, for the April 8, 2024 eclipse, I rallied the whole family—my wife, my son, my other daughter, and her husband, and a pair in inlaws—and we drove 450 miles from Baton Rouge to Murfreesboro, Arkansas. I’d rented a beautiful cabin by the Little Missouri River, right in the path of totality. Everything was perfect—except the forecast. Mostly cloudy with a chance of rain. My heart sank.
The morning of the eclipse dawned bright, but the sky was streaked with clouds. Totality wouldn’t arrive until nearly 1:00 p.m., so we waited, hoping for a miracle. Slowly, the clouds began to thin, then break, until—just in time---just like magic—the sky cleared completely. We hurried outside to the gravel driveway, setting up chairs for the show. I fixed a pair of eclipse glasses over my camera lens, ready to shoot. Everyone had their glasses on. As totality neared, the light dimmed rapidly. The temperature dropped ten degrees in seconds. Insects began their evening chorus. Two owls hooted in the distance.
Then—darkness. A black disc in the sky, glowing with a silver crown. We removed our glasses and stared in awe. I snapped photo after photo, desperate to capture the magic. And then it came—the "Diamond Ring." A burst of sunlight flared from behind the moon. When I reviewed the shots later, I nearly jumped for joy: I’d captured the Diamond Ring and a solar flare.
Sharing that moment with my family, witnessing such a rare wonder together, is a memory I’ll treasure forever—etched in both my heart and my photos.
www.craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

04/05/2025

Sun Cage!

I woke up before the alarm, stirred by the quiet pull of the Gulf just across the street. My wife was still sleeping soundly—it was my birthday weekend after all, and we’d come to Longbeach, Mississippi, to relax. But I couldn't resist the lure of the sunrise. I dressed in silence, slung my camera gear over my shoulder, grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the lobby, and stepped out into the brisk March morning.

The wind off the Gulf was sharper than I’d expected, ruffling my hair and making me wish I’d grabbed a jacket. Still, the smell of saltwater and the soft rush of surf grounded me—so clean, so pure. Low tide had exposed the sandbars, and the shallows teemed with seagulls pacing and diving, searching for breakfast.

I wandered until I found my frame. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow when I noticed the fishing pier’s gazebo ahead. I moved slightly—yes, just there—the rising sun would soon line up perfectly within it. As the golden orb peeked over the horizon, it hovered right inside the gazebo’s frame, caged for just a breath. I captured it—just in time. Seconds later, it had already risen beyond the frame, and the moment was gone.

I lingered in the cold, fingers numbing as I caught a few more shots of gulls and surf, then finally retreated back across Hwy 90, warming my hands with a second coffee. Quietly slipping into our hotel room, I settled by the window and uploaded the shots. And there it was—that one image. The sun, glowing inside the gazebo like a firefly in a jar.

I smiled. Beauty, it seems, is always waiting—if you simply show up.
www.craiglabordephotos.etsy.com

Craig LaBorde Photography

01/13/2026

06/21/2025

05/18/2025

05/10/2025

05/04/2025

05/03/2025

04/27/2025

04/13/2025

04/12/2025

04/05/2025

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