Jesse D Poole, Natchitoches, LA (2026)

06/13/2026

Casa Grande. Big Bend National Park.

I've driven thousands of miles chasing photographs.

I've stood on coastlines, in swamps, deserts, mountains, forgotten towns, and places most people fly past without a second thought.

Yet some places keep calling you back.
Big Bend is one of those places.

The funny thing is, despite multiple trips to the park, I'd never really spent much time in the Chisos Basin during the middle of the day. Sunrise, sunset, and blue hour always seemed to pull me toward the Window or somewhere else in the desert.

This time was different.

I was there specifically to photograph Casa Grande.

Standing beneath it in the harsh Texas sun, I realized something. Some landscapes don't need dramatic light to command your attention. Some places are powerful simply because they exist.

The mountain rises above the Basin like a fortress of stone, dwarfing everything around it. The longer I stood there, the less I cared about whether the light was perfect.

That's one of the reasons I keep returning to places like this.

The mountain doesn't care who you are, what you do for a living, or how many followers you have. It simply exists, weathering another day beneath an endless Texas sky.

Maybe that's why these places matter.

They remind us how small we are.

And somehow, in that smallness, we find a little perspective.

📍 Casa Grande, Chisos Mountains
Big Bend National Park, Texas
—

Shot on Canon USA

06/11/2026

I’ve been up before the sun most mornings this week.

Nothing glamorous. Just work. Small projects. Early alarms that make me want to smash my phone.

Yesterday morning I had about fifteen or twenty minutes to spare before the day got rolling, so I threw the drone in the air over Cane River.

The storm clouds from the night before were still hanging around, and for a few minutes the sunrise found a hole in them.

That’s one of the things photography keeps teaching me.

Most of the magic isn’t planned.

It’s not the big trip.
It’s not the expensive camera.
It’s not the perfect conditions.

Sometimes it’s fifteen stolen minutes between obligations. A break in the clouds. A town you’ve driven through a thousand times suddenly looking brand new.

This was Natchitoches yesterday morning.

Same river.
Same streets.
Different light.

Sometimes that’s enough. The older I get, the more I realize photography isn’t really about finding new places.

It’s about paying attention to the places you’ve already been.
—

06/10/2026

This week, another piece of the Rio Grande changed.

That's when I realized it's time to answer a few questions I've been getting about The Rio Project.

"Why are you documenting the Rio?"
"Why can't you just do something more local?"
"Why should I care about the Rio Grande?"
"It's just some dumb river."
"We need more security though."
"We don't need illegals in this country."
"What do you think you'll get from this kind of useless project?"

These aren't made up questions. These are actual things people have said to me since I started The Rio Project.

The funny thing is, most people hear "Rio Grande" and immediately think politics.

I don't.

I think about water.
I think about canyons.
I think about wildlife.
I think about drought.
I think about history.
I think about the people who live along it.
I think about the communities that depend on it.
I think about a river that existed long before any border was drawn on a map.

And I think about change.

This week there are headlines about new vehicle barriers being installed in parts of the Big Bend region. Last year it was something else. Next year it'll be something else entirely.

The river keeps changing.
The landscape keeps changing.
The people keep changing.
The story keeps changing.

That's why I'm documenting it.

Not because I'm trying to convince anyone of anything.
Not because I'm campaigning for one side or another.
Not because I think photography is going to magically solve complex problems.

I'm documenting it because somebody should.

A photographer's job isn't to show up after everything is gone and wish they had paid attention sooner.

It's to be there while it still exists.

To make a record.
To witness.
To preserve a moment before it becomes a memory.

Maybe one day these photographs will matter to historians.
Maybe they'll matter to conservationists.
Maybe they'll matter to the people who call the Rio home.
Maybe they'll matter to nobody but me.

That's okay too.

Not everything worth doing has to make money.
Not everything worth photographing has to be local.
Not everything worth caring about has to affect you directly.

Sometimes a river is more than a river.
Sometimes it's a lifeline.
Sometimes it's a border.
Sometimes it's a wound.
Sometimes it's a bridge.
Sometimes it's a story.

And stories are worth preserving.

So I'll keep driving.
I'll keep photographing.
I'll keep listening.
I'll keep paying attention.

Because whether people realize it or not, the Rio Grande is changing... and somebody ought to remember what it looked like before it did.
—

Canon USA

06/10/2026

We’re moving too fast…

06/10/2026

Mornings on the Rio~

Cold Colorado air. Even colder Rio Grande moving through the valley.

I stood in the water longer than I needed to that morning. Not because the light was extraordinary. Not because I thought I was about to make the best photograph of the trip.

I just wasn’t ready to leave.

I’ve developed a strange affinity for this river over the last few months.

One I can’t fully explain.

Maybe it’s because a river never stays the same. The water passing my boots that morning is long gone by now. Headed somewhere else. Becoming something else.

Maybe it’s because every bend feels like a new conversation.

Or maybe it’s because the Rio doesn’t ask anything of me except that I pay attention.

Standing there, listening to water move around stone, watching the mountains catch the first hints of daylight, I wasn’t thinking about photographs.

I was thinking about how rare it is to simply be somewhere.

No destination.
No deadline.
No purpose beyond standing in a river and listening.

The Rio has given me a lot of those moments.

And for that, I’ll keep coming back.
—
Shot on Canon USA
The Rio Project

https://www.jessedpoole.com/the-rio-project

06/10/2026

The Window.
Kodak Tri-X 400
—

06/08/2026

Prem Krishna Gongaju
Educator, Philosopher, Former Student Life Advisor & Teacher
Nepal to Natchitoches

“Prem Krishna Gongaju—that’s my name. I come from the land of snow and yeti to the Westerners.”

Born in Kathmandu, Nepal—“a beautiful valley that could have served as an Eden for my boyhood”—Prem first came to the United States on September 9, 1967.

He credits that journey to his brother, who, as Prem puts it, “moved heaven and earth” to make it possible.

“It was his one giant act of sacrifice and love.”

Nearly three decades later, in 1996, he arrived in Natchitoches.

“School started.”

And with it, something clicked.
“I had arrived. I found my niche.”

What brought him here was more than work.

“I always wanted to cross the Mason-Dixon line... unless you have broken bread with the people, you only know through the head.”

That search for understanding led him to the Louisiana School for Math, Science, and the Arts, where he would spend twenty-five years as Student Life Advisor and teacher of World Religions.

A quarter of a century shaping young minds.

To him, it was never simply employment.
“It wasn’t just a job. It was a calling.”

When asked what those years meant to him, his answer was pure Prem: “It was a garden of saplings to humanity.”

And maybe no quote captures his philosophy more clearly than this:

“People are plants and plants are people. The same care I give to plants, I give to people.”

When asked what Natchitoches means to him, he spoke with both affection and honesty.

“What I like is the City of Lights. It’s a beautiful thing.”

But he also offered a harder truth:

“Every town has lights and blight.”

That tension—the visible glow and the unseen reality beneath it—is exactly what this project is about.

Still, his faith remains rooted in people.

“When they break bread with you, that could be the beginning of the end of racism.”

And in the end, his purpose was never about status or reward.

“Money was never the prime motivator for me. It was something of service.”

“The job was the privilege.”

This is Prem Krishna Gongaju.
A teacher. A philosopher. A storyteller.

One of the many people whose quiet work helped shape this city...

Beyond the Lights.
—

Shot on Canon USA

06/07/2026

For years I've photographed Natchitoches.

The river.
The churches.
The brick streets.
The lights.
The festivals.
The sunsets.
The things people see.

But somewhere along the way, I realized the most interesting thing about this town isn't the buildings or gatherings...

It's the people.

The teacher who spent a quarter century shaping young minds.
The business owner who bet everything on a dream.
The musician playing for a crowd of ten.
The mechanic keeping old trucks alive.
The barber who knows everyone's story.
The waitress who remembers your order.

The people who build this place, keep it moving, and make it what it is.

Their stories are rarely written down.
They're shared across counters, over coffee, around dinner tables, on front porches, and sometimes over a cold beer.

Until one day, they're gone.
So I'm starting a new project.

**BEYOND THE LIGHTS**
*Portraits of Natchitoches*

A long-term documentary portrait series focused on the people behind this city.

Not just what they do.

But who they are.
Where they came from.
What they've built.
What this place means to them.
And what they hope remains after they're gone.

And after spending time listening to these stories, I'm convinced of one thing:

Natchitoches is known as the City of Lights, and every year we celebrate those lights.
It's time we celebrated the people...

Beyond the Lights.
—

06/07/2026

I’ve been thinking today.

Not about photography.
Not about business.
Not about followers, algorithms, print sales, or the next place on the map.

Just thinking about what the hell we’re all doing here.

We spend our lives building things. Careers. Families. Communities. Reputations. We collect stories and scars. We love people. We lose people. We chase things that matter and plenty that don’t.

And then one day we’re gone.

A lifetime reduced to a handful of photographs, a few stories people tell, and whatever pieces of ourselves we managed to leave behind in others.

Maybe that’s all a soul is.

Maybe it’s the part of you that remains after the rest is gone.

The kindness you gave away.
The lessons you passed on.
The trees you planted knowing you’d never sit in their shade.

I don’t know.

I don’t know what energy is.
I don’t know what consciousness is.
I don’t know why we’re here.

But I know this:

This human experience is brief.

Painfully brief.

And if we’re lucky, maybe our purpose isn’t to figure everything out. Maybe it’s simply to leave something behind that makes this place a little better than we found it.

A photograph.
A conversation.
A helping hand.
A life well lived.

Something that keeps growing long after we’re gone.
—

Shot on Canon USA

06/06/2026

I want to be transparent about this project.

The last two Rio Project print drops have sold one print.

One.

One print doesn’t cover the cost of the drop. It doesn’t cover shipping. It doesn’t make financial sense. If I was looking at this strictly as a business decision, I’d probably pack it up and move on to something easier.

Which is fine, because I didn’t start this project to sell prints.

I didn’t start this project because it was easy.

I started it because I felt an urgency to document this river before it changes.

I started it because I felt something pulling me toward this river.

The Rio Grande—The Río Bravo.

A river that is simultaneously a border, a lifeline, a source of conflict, a source of survival, and one of the most important landscapes in North America.

Right now, the Big Bend region sits in a strange place. Proposed border wall projects, changing federal maps, billion-dollar contracts, shifting plans, and a lack of clear communication have left people throughout the region asking the same question:

What happens next?

What happens to the river?

What happens to access?

What happens to the communities, the wildlife, the history, and the places that have existed long before any of us arrived?

The answer is—I don’t know.

And that’s exactly why I’m going back.

Because if I sit at home waiting for someone else to document it, I might miss it.

Because photographs become evidence.

Places change.
Landscapes disappear.

Because someday people may ask what the Rio looked like before whatever comes next.

And I want to be able to show them.

So no, I’m not stopping.

The print sales may be slow. The support may be almost nonexistent. But I’m too stubborn to quit now.

The Rio Project was never about selling prints.

It was always about finishing the story.
And I’m going back to Big Bend and to Mexico. 🇲🇽
—

The Rio Project

https://www.jessedpoole.com/the-rio-project

Jesse D Poole

06/13/2026

06/11/2026

06/10/2026

06/10/2026

06/10/2026

06/10/2026

06/08/2026

06/07/2026

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06/06/2026

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