Craig LaBorde Photography

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.
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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.
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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

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