I waved goodbye to the trainers as they walked away, the picture already fading from their memories. I double-checked my photos; I had never seen them before. I doubt I will run into them again, but I might, if they travel enough. I hope so, if only to see how they have changed.
The first trainer had a Sanshrew and an Oddish. The Sandshrew clearly had not liked being in the picture. It squinted at the sun, standing slightly behind the trainer to get in his shadow. Still, it did not bother its trainer to be put back in the ball. Instead, it did its best to please him; the poor boy hadn't noticed his Sandshrew's displeasure. He would have to get to know his pokémon more if he wanted to make it much farther. The Oddish had fared much better, clearly enjoying the sunlight from its position on the boy's shoulder. Its leaves could have been a little more lustrous; a few hours in the soil would be needed for it to be looking and performing at its best.
The Skitty had paid no attention whatsoever to me. It meandered around its trainer constantly until it was picked up, at first mewling to be let down but eventually accepting the inevitable and nestling into its trainer's shoulder. The Swablu acted much more dignified, eyeing the Skitty with disdain as it positioned itself by the trainer's side. If they ever had to rely on each other, they were bound to be disappointed. Once they were settled, though, the picture went well.
The trainers opted not to have a picture together; they likely had not been together very long. The way they spoke and their comfort with each other indicated some time together, but not enough to think of themselves as a group instead of single trainers. First one waited to the side as the other had their picture taken, and then they swapped places. Not much was said by either me or them, just simple thanks for the picture and the opportunity to take it, and then we parted.
The light sound of a bell ringing along with the announcement that the Bug Catching Contest was just a few minutes away from being done reminded me of what I was here for. There were no trainers left outside the gatehouse, so I walked inside and waited for the contest to finish. The gatehouse had a few folding plastic chairs placed throughout, for the few fans that came to see the results and the trainers whom had nearly exhausted themselves searching for a good bug. There were already a few people inside, all grouped into pairs and chatting to each other, some subdued, as if they had been frozen in place, and some gesturing animatedly, clearly excited. Those were mostly the veteran bug catchers, whom had already prepared their catches to be judged, though there were a few older trainers who came to see how the newer trainers were doing.
I found a chair out of the way, and sat down, my attention quickly falling on a pair nearby. They were not as loud or animated as the others around them, but their tone was excited, from what I could hear. The two of them, a boy and a girl, were whispering conspiratorially, neither completely facing the other nor turning away, but looking the same direction with their heads leaning towards each other. They were obviously trying not to attract attention, but their excitement betrayed them in every nervous gesture and loud whisper. From the sideways glances they gave everyone else in the room, measuring in their minds, I could assume the competition was the focus of their enthusiasm. Likely, one or both of them had caught something that they thought was deserving of a high placing.
A final, loud pealing of the bell announced the end of the contest. I rose and followed the pair out of the gatehouse, going to the side as they approached the judging area. I didn't need to see that; I had been here dozens of times, and the judges never allowed photos. They claimed it made the freshly caught pokémon nervous and skewed the judging. Instead, I made my way to my familiar position behind and to the side of the winner's platform. Other cameras would catch the winner ascending the steps, and proudly accepting the prize along with their winning specimen. I was interested in seeing the winner's name being called, that moment of raw shock and euphoria when someone realizes that they have triumphed over all the others surrounding them. After that, professionalism sets in, and no matter the excitement, the winner is smooth and calm, graciously accepting their trophy with a polite smile.
A soft clatter of feet announced that the judging had finished, and the trainers made their way to the temporary stage, awaiting the announcement of the winner. After a quick scan of the crowd, I found the pair I had eavesdropped on earlier, still together. The excitement and confidence they had displayed earlier was gone, replaced by doubt and worry in the moment of truth, when their fate was at last out of their hands. The mass of people quieted as the head judge climbed onto the platform, silently making his way to the podium in practiced motions. This was not his first contest, and it would not be his last. In fact, there was nothing special about this one; no outstanding captures, nothing shamefully bad. I could tell from the way he walked, slow and patient, without excitement or attention to the decision that held so many motionless. He quickly gave a small speech about the competition, causing a few of the first-time trainers to pay rapt attention while the experienced catchers sat back and waited, light whispers snaking through the crowd. The pair was part of the former, giving the judge their utmost attention. He stopped, and the entire crowd became silent again. I focused my camera on the pair, betting that their hopes would be the ones met, and waited for the announcement. Third place came and went, a young child taking the small trophy. Second place was announced as well, to a smattering of applause, but the crowd quieted before she even left the stage, anticipating the awarding of first place. The pair was still hopeful, leaning forward with hands clasped. The speaker began the announcement, holding back the name as he had every time before. After a moment of hushed silence, he read the winner, and a bug catcher in the last row stood up yelling. I set my camera down, allowing it to shut off as the pair's faces fell. I had guessed incorrectly, and would have to wait for the next competition to capture that unbridled excitement again. The winner accepted his trophy proudly, a small thing probably not worth the park balls used in trying to get it, but still coveted by so many people.
The crowd filtered out soon enough, some friends coming forward to congratulate the winner, but most others simply leaving. After a moment, I followed the pair out. The girl had her hand over the boy's shoulder as he looked down; he had been the one they thought would win, then.
I made my way up to the pair, picking my way through the mass of bodies, and offered to take their picture. The girl, immediately sensing a way to distract the boy, enthusiastically accepted, and the boy reluctantly agreed. We found a nice, secluded corner of the park, and the pair released their pokémon. They gathered together, and I took their picture.
The girl sent out a Meganium and a Magneton; her Marill was already beside her. The Meganium immediately stepped to her right side, proudly standing there as if to proclaim that it was her most dependable. The Marill was bouncing on its tail to her left, clearly excited, though the source eluded me. Her Magneton floated above the Marill soundlessly, all three eyes focused on the camera lens.
The boy sent out a Sudowoodo, a Noctowl, and a Pinsir, as the Quilava that had trailed him bounded to his side. The Quilava stood on its hind legs, nuzzling the boy's hand affectionately with its snout. The Sudowoodo posed in the background, doing its best imitation of a tree except for the broad smile on its face. The Noctowl flew up before deciding that the boy's shoulder may not be the best place to perch, and flew back down to the boy's side, resting in between the two trainers and pretending it had been there the whole time. The Pinsir stepped back, more than a little surprised at his surroundings, but at a gesture from the boy, stepped forward with the Noctowl.
I took their picture then, forever preserving that one moment in time. That was over ten years ago, and I can still remember it clearly without even glancing at the picture. Most people see the pictures, and they talk about what they see, how that trainer is standing, how pretty that pokémon is. That is not why I take these pictures. I take these pictures to remember what is not seen, what is most important. I take these pictures, and I see emotions and reasons. I see apathy, pride, friendship, distrust, and loyalty. I see history and futures, all in the present. I take these pictures, not so that I can look back on them myself, but so that these never die; so that years from now, when a retired trainer looks back on their days travelling, they can see what they learned to value the most from these trips, and I will help them to see that in any way I can.
There when you least expect me, I am Cameron the photographer.