Words by Cory Ohlendorf | Photography courtesy of GO OUT

I’m told there’s a particular kind of crisis that hits a guy in his late twenties in Tokyo. The boxy clothes and streetwear brands he’s been wearing start to feel a little juvenile. But the sharp suits many are required to wear for work feel like a uniform and nothing more. Stuck between too loud and too corporate, he finds himself in a changing room with a fleece from Patagonia or some relaxed nylon pants, wondering if this is the answer. For Mitsuru Takeshita, that sartorial restlessness didn’t just change his wardrobe. It launched one of the most quietly influential magazines in the world.

Takeshita was working in publishing in the early aughts when he started noticing something. At the outdoor music festivals that were quietly becoming the social heartbeat of Japan’s creative class, it wasn’t the performance gear guys or the hardcore mountain climbers who were turning heads. It was the fashion folks—designers, stylists and models—showing up in The North Face and Montbell, not because they were about to summit anything, but because the stuff just looked right. It was cool and considered, built to last. They might not have been trying, but what they were doing was inventing an aesthetic. And there was absolutely no magazine covering it.

Japan’s outdoor press at the time was thorough, technical and deeply functional—full of trail reports, waterproofing ratings and gear specs aimed at weekend mountaineers. All valuable, sure, but with roughly the visual energy of an instruction manual. What was missing was fashion's eye. Nobody was asking how do you actually wear this? Nobody was photographing puffers the way Popeye photographed a denim jacket. Takeshita saw the gap and, in 2007, under Sanei-Shobo publishing, GO OUT was born.

The timing was great. Japan was at the beginning of what Takeshita would later describe as a generational shift: The country had spent much of the 20th century turning its back on all of it in the rush toward industrialization. Now, slowly, a younger generation was turning back around. They came to realize that beautiful beaches were just a short train ride from Tokyo. Mountains visible from the highway on a clear day. Forests dense enough to make you feel genuinely far away, when all you need to get there was some comfortable shoes and your Pasmo card.

GO OUT met that generation exactly where they were. It was was introduced as the sporty brother to Men’s Fudge magazine. Each issue functioned less like a traditional magazine and more like a very well-curated mood board, dense with product spreads, brand profiles, rugged cars and photography that made the outdoors feel like a lifestyle extension rather than a departure from daily life. You could flip through a single issue and encounter a spread on overland-ready 4x4 trucks, a profile on a Tokyo designer whose apartment looked like a very stylish mountain hut, a round-up of Gramicci and White Mountaineering releases, and a feature on some handmade gear brand out of Hokkaido you'd never heard of but immediately needed. This wasn’s straightforward gear journalism. It was “desire journalism”.

There’s a word that gets used a lot in Japan when people talk about this kind of pursuit: Kodawari. It doesn't translate cleanly, but it lives somewhere between devotion, obsession, and a refusal to accept anything less than the best version of a thing. GO OUT readers bring this same energy to their relationship with the outdoors. For someone spending five days a week (or more) in an office tower in Shinjuku or Shibuya, the weekend in nature isn't just a break, it’s a ritual. And rituals deserve the right tools. Which tent? Which boots? Which titanium camp cup? These questions matter not because they're showing off, but because doing it properly is how you honor the experience. The magazine understands this perfectly. They treat this gear as the vocabulary of a life well-lived, the quiet objects that sit on your shelf during the week as a reminder that the forest is still out there, and that you'll be ready when Friday finally comes.

The magazine eventually expanded into a small universe of its own. GO OUT Livin’ arrived as a spin-off dedicated to interiors, specifically the homes of people who live with their outdoor obsessions rather than keeping them in a garage somewhere. Cabins lined with gear. Kitchens stocked with camping cookware used daily. Living rooms that blurred the line between indoor comfort and the camp aesthetic. Each spring and autumn, GO OUT Jamboree brings the magazine’s world into physical form. The multi-day outdoor festival features hundreds of brands, a music stage and a field full of elaborately arranged tents that looked more like curated living rooms than shelter.

Japan's print culture is famously resilient, and I think GO OUT embodies why. Takeshita has said that a magazine’s job is to stay close to its readers, to know what they want before they know themselves. That’s why an outdoor magazine runs articles on furniture, cars, and home design without any sense of contradiction. Because the reader isn't just a hiker or a camper. He’s that guy in Tokyo who thinks carefully about how he lives: what’s in his apartment, what’s in his bag, and what hiker sneaker he laces up when the weekend finally arrives.

After two popular collaborations last year, Snow Peak—Japan’s preeminent outdoor brand—has teamed up with Merrell again for some hardwearing sneakers designed to transition from rugged trails to city streets. The shoe integrates Merrell’s proprietary grippy, bouncy soles with GORE‑TEX waterproofing technology and Snow Peak’s sophisticated and understated design sensibility. The exclusive colorway draws inspiration from nature while reflective elements are incorporated into the speed laces and heel strap, resulting in a pair of shoes that enhances both functionality and visibility. These are sneakers that look as good with some sweats or nylon hiking pants as they do with some wide-leg pleated navy chinos.

Solo-katsu (ソロ活) is a compound word that’s actually short for solo katsudou. It means doing something by oneself, but is used not to describe being lonely but rather enjoying your alone time. In Japan, many people treasure their alone time and there’s a trend of purposefully engaging in leisure activities solo, such as dining, karaoke or taking simple day trips. It’s about giving yourself a break to recharge and transforms being alone into a positive, empowering experience of self-fulfillment rather than loneliness. It emphasizes independence and the importance of “me time” and we could probably all benefit from embracing it now and then.