There is something quietly ridiculous about how many people now dress as if they have just returned from a hike they never took. On any given weekday, you can spot them trekking across campus or walking the cobbled streets of St. Andrews in trail runners designed for alpine terrain, zippered vests with more pockets than purpose and waterproof shells that have never known rain beyond a Scotland’s trademark light drizzle. The aesthetic is unmistakable: outdoorsy, but only in theory.
This is, supposedly, gorpcore – a fashion trend that has taken hiking and performance wear out of the wilderness and into everyday life. Named after the backpacker snack “Good Ol’ Raisins and Peanuts,” gorpcore was once about genuine functionality: clothing designed to survive the elements, endure wear and move with the body. Today, it has been thoroughly domesticated. The trail is optional; the look is not. The social currency is still earnt.
Brands like Salomon and Arc’teryx have become unlikely arbiters of taste, their technical credibility repurposed as social shorthand. Wearing them suggests not just comfort or quality but a particular kind of self: capable, active and adventurous. You might not be outdoors right now but you could be, especially on the third date you’re trying to secure by wearing an arc-teryx beanie to dinner. At least, that is what the clothes are saying on your behalf.
But this performance is not only about identity – it is also about value. Gorpcore carries a distinct social currency, one that hinges on price as much as purpose. A shell jacket that costs several hundred pounds does more than keep out the rain; it quietly signals access, discernment and the ability to invest in clothing that promises longevity. These brands are expensive not by accident but by design, their high cost framed as evidence of seriousness and authenticity, this dedication to the craft, where, really, all you’ve done is walked the Fife Coastal Path long enough to see where the highland cows should be, but in fact came a month or so too early and so plodded your way back to greener pastures. In this way, gorpcore functions much like other forms of cultural capital: it rewards those who can afford to buy into the aesthetic while maintaining the illusion that the look is merely practical, neutral or earned through experience.
This ritualistic performance of outdoorsiness feels especially telling in a moment when most of our lives are spent indoors – in lecture halls, our professors’ offices, the corners of cafes and ostensibly online. As screens flatten experience and routines blur into one another, the idea of escape gains cultural weight. Hiking, climbing and “getting out into nature” have become moralised activities, shorthand for wellness, balance and authenticity – this new diet culture. Dressing for the outdoors, then, becomes a way of aligning oneself with those values without necessarily having to live them. All, naturally, with a hefty price tag.
The irony, of course, is visible in the details. Trainers remain spotless. Jackets are pristine. The clothes promise mud, rain and exertion – yet bear no trace of any of it. Gorpcore trades on the visual language of effort while remaining resolutely clean. It is adventure without abrasion; risk without consequence.
This isn’t to say the trend is meaningless or purely cynical. The popularity of functional clothing does reflect a shift away from fashion that prioritises discomfort, restriction or purely decorative excess. Gorpcore values movement, durability and bodies that do things – even if, for many wearers, those things are limited to chasing after a closing lecture theatre door and queuing for coffee during the 8:55-9:05 am rush at Taste. There is something quietly radical in choosing clothes that assume you will move, bend, walk and exist.
But it is also hard to ignore how easily the aesthetic slips into aspiration rather than action. In wearing the uniform of the outdoors, we borrow its moral authority. We signal resilience, groundedness and a connection to something “real,” even as our lives remain tethered to concrete and WiFi. The clothes do the work of suggesting character.
Perhaps that is the true appeal of gorpcore. It offers the comfort of becoming someone – someone adventurous, someone healthy, someone connected – without demanding the transformation itself. The mountain is implied. The hike is hypothetical. And the mud, tellingly, never quite makes it onto the trainers.