One might imagine the worst thing that could happen before a national archery championship is forgetting your bow, or perhaps turning up in the wrong-coloured club shirt. But no — it’s standing on Stockholm Central Station, realising that your train to Bollnäs departs in ninety seconds… from ten platforms away.

There I stood — photographer, archer, communicator — with a suitcase packed with camera gear, a strict schedule to follow, and a somewhat more poetic relationship to timetables than SJ (Sweden’s rail company) tends to prefer.

This was, astonishingly, the first time I’ve ever missed a proper long-distance train. Local buses and commuter trains? Sure — dodging those is practically a Stockholm sport. But missing a big, real train? There’s a unique sting to watching that sleek silver serpent glide into the horizon while you’re left behind, tripod in hand, like a misplaced extra in your own documentary.

But then, something rather magical happened — or well, typically Swedish-archery magical. I posted a quick message on Facebook:
“Anyone headed to Bollnäs?”

Within three minutes, I had more offers for a lift than I have USB cables at home. My phone buzzed so vigorously it started sliding off the bench. Calls, comments, messages — it was as if all of archery Sweden collectively hit the “Help Jonas” button at once.

The solution? A fast train to Västerås, where the Borås team coach waited like a guardian angel in fleece. And just like that, the mood was set: this Championship was going to be something special.

A Camera that Hugs

On day two, I arrived at the arena — a little tired, very happy, and with camera at the ready. As photographer at a national championship, you have a simple yet noble mission: capture everything. Smiles, tears, concentration, triumph — a blooming bouquet of emotion.

It’s a dance, really — between being invisible, and still making people feel seen.

Naturally, there’s a fair amount of talking. But trust me — you can do both. You learn to nod, chuckle, and offer the occasional “ahh” while adjusting your aperture and waiting for the perfect moment. Some of the best shots happen mid-conversation about dinner plans or lens choices — usually involving the words “70 to 350 millimetres”.

But behind every photo, there’s something deeper — emotion. Because in archery, you’re not just competing against others. You’re up against yourself, your expectations, your pulse — and occasionally, caffeine jitters. People cry. Out of joy, relief, frustration. And sometimes, even after an outstanding result — because the pressure simply needs to escape somehow.

And it’s beautiful. It’s human. It’s archery.

I lost count of how many archers I hugged, comforted, or gently reminded that they were phenomenal — regardless of what the numbers on the scoreboard said. Because they were.

Commentators from the Clouds

While we’re on the topic of phenomenal — allow me a moment to praise my comrades in the communications team. The ones who, with zero warning, were asked to commentate the gold medal finals on a live broadcast.

Two hours before we went live, I cheerfully dropped this little assignment in their laps:
“You’ve got this, right? We’re the communications team after all.”

And they did. With charm, warmth, and just the right amount of improvisation. The sort of people you’d want by your side on a deserted island — or in a livestream booth in Bollnäs.

A Sport, a Family, a Joyfully Nerdy Gathering

There’s something quite marvellous about archery people. We’re like a travelling circus where everyone gets to be the acrobat, the audience, and the popcorn vendor. You can talk to anyone, about absolutely anything — as long as it involves a bow, an f-stop, or an obscure camp story from 2023. It’s gloriously nerdy. And I love it.

And there, right in the thick of it, stands the camera. Sometimes in the way, sometimes in the perfect place — often both. You capture stories, glances, trembling hands, roaring victors. And you feel part of something much bigger. Not just a competition — a community.

So thank you — to everyone who smiled, cried, competed, hugged, laughed and opened their arms. Thank you, Bollnäs.

Next time, we’ll meet again at the Nordic Youth Championships 2025 — and I promise to read the train ticket verycarefully.

PS: You will find my pictures at flickr. Press here to go to the album.