What on earth has happened to outdoor gear?

photo: D Hansard

The outdoor gear industry, once a model of technological achievement, is squandering its inheritance

When I first started hillwalking, back in the late-1970s, part and parcel of the attraction was the gear. As a young teenager it fascinated and inspired me. The mountains and moors are of course there to be enjoyed on their own merits. What does it matter what you wear or which gear you use? But like most young people in whichever pastime they choose, the tools of the trade helped structure my experience and define who I was.

There was a magic to be found in the product brochures I endlessly browsed. Here was a sleeping bag I’d picture myself in, out in the wilds. There a rucksack, on the back of a Himalayan climber in the glossy photo, but suddenly now as if on mine, as I strode along a mist-shrouded ridge. Outdoor shops were deeply enthralling, sanctuaries of delight and wonder where I could spend half a day. I loved going in them. Until recently I still did. But in the last decade the magic has gone, and it’s not because I’m now older. Something strange and entirely unnecessary has happened and it’s making outdoor gear more of a misery than a delight.

The past was far from perfect. We weren’t exactly spoiled for choice. And with hindsight, the designs and performance are risible. Cagoules – as we called them back then – were very basic and were either blue, orange or green. They had all the style of a tent that had partially-collapsed. I wore tracksuit bottoms while walking. I wouldn’t be seen dead in the only other available option – the thick woollen breeches worn by my scout leaders. Boots were as heavy as bricks. And there were only two types of hat, both of which made you look stupid. None of this stopped us having great days in the hills, of course, even if our crazily-patterned Marks & Spencer jumpers clashed terribly with the sheep.

There had already been big improvements over the canvas and tweed of not long before. But more progress was needed, and – as the Outdoors became ever more popular – it came at an accelerating pace.

Within about fifteen years gear was completely transformed. Everything was better: the designs, the materials, the performance, and the range of choice.

It was quite an achievement. And it made life in the the mountains safer and more comfortable. It peaked, I’d say, in the early 2000s. I remember thinking that things cannot possibly get any better, because everything is perfect. And it didn’t get better. It got worse. The gear itself and the range of choice.

For an industry worth many millions, which promotes itself as forward-looking and innovative, and one so central to the walker’s experience, this is bad news. But what is the problem?

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The problem isn’t the quality of materials and fabrics, which are still excellent. Neither is it that most gear is made in the Far East.

First, the long-established and proven system of layering has been greatly undermined. Second, the cut of garments has become quite farcical. Combined with the standardisation of products across all companies, these two issues are negating the advances previously achieved, while increasingly limiting customer choice.

Layering is by far the best way to deal with the myriad conditions walkers face. Instead of a few thick layers, a greater number of relatively thinner ones are carried and worn as they’re needed. It’s a remarkably flexible, mix-and-match system. It allows us to cope perfectly with changeable weather and to remain comfortable whether we’re moving or have stopped for a break. It’s simple and intuitive. Most of all, it works. So why spoil it? But that’s exactly what’s happened.

A good fleece is essential for layering. Yet it’s increasingly difficult to find them. Even some shop owners admit the current situation is odd. Not long ago it was a routine part of our kit. It’s as if the industry has embarked on a programme of fleece decommissioning. Instead we now have ‘soft shell’ garments. Choose either from ugly jackets made of heavy nylon, which few seem to wear, or – entirely different – paper-thin, zip-necked tops of contrasting fabrics and hues, showing an over-zealous commitment to fashion over usefulness and comfort.

Some look very nice. But where is the warmth? They’re even thinner than the layer which used to go beneath the fleece, the micro-fleece pullover, which is also becoming quite rare. Are we supposed to wear two of these motley garments, to make up the deficit? Or three? I really don’t know. Nothing makes sense.

Sometimes I’m told I should wear one of the new-fangled, insulated jackets, instead of a fleece. That’s only useful in specific situations. They’re too warm to replace a fleece – but disappointingly not as warm as a standard insulated jacket. So in colder weather will you take two jackets, do you think? Are you quite sure? How will that work?

The whole thing is a mess and doesn’t work. But it gets worse.

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Aliens seem to have had a hand in the designs. Let’s say you’ve tracked down the last fleece in town, one made of the most advanced materials ever devised by the human race. You put it on. The sleeve length is perfect. But it won’t fasten, despite you being no wider than you were ten years ago. The next size up zips up like a dream. Unfortunately the sleeves extend six inches past your fingertips.

(Swear word.)

Every top, every ‘soft shell’, every jacket now has an elongated, swept-in design, like a figure-hugging body sleeve, akin to a wetsuit. For base-layers and some mid-layers this may be suitable. But for the outer layers too? What on earth is going on? At the very least, I expect my jackets to fasten.

And before I forget, do you prefer your rucksack hip belts to inexplicably fasten around your stomach, exactly where they shouldn’t and never used to? No? Shame, because that’s how most of them now are. No one knows why.

Luckily, you might think, the market itself will provide you with alternatives. If you can’t find what you want in one store, you will find it elsewhere. You can’t. Every company has gone down the same route. The logos differ and each company has a slightly different approach. But essentially it’s all the same stuff, all beset with the same problems. Contrary to industry rhetoric, there is very little if any variety and therefore little or no choice.

But don’t companies provide just what customers want? Since the industry peaked, that’s no longer the case.

Having peaked – way back in the heady days of around 2002 – where was there left to go? Consumers had what they wanted. Yet how was a company, pressed by its corporate investors, ever going to gain competitive advantage? And, after all, the product designers needed something to do.

So a few set about making things they believed would be hip and cool and therefore more enticing, even though they already looked great and performed to perfection. The industry also wished to sell the same items to a wider public, whose needs are significantly different from those of walkers and climbers. Whether the new designs would be practical seemed unimportant. Worried their own range would appear too staid, other companies followed suit. Driven by these goals, rather than by what really works, we have ended up where we are now: with a uniform range of prettified, impractical and often uncomfortable products offering diminishing choice. It caters well to those looking for fashion rather than real outdoor kit, especially if they’re built like a stick insect. But for walkers who want what they wear to meet their needs – as they know it once did – it’s deeply frustrating. An industry once great has now lost its way.

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