When I first stepped into Snow Peak’s Williamsburg store, I knew this wasn’t the rickety, mismatched camping gear I’d grown up with. As I pawed through racks of quilted jackets and pants, in shades of ivory and denim blue, and poked my head into a campground setup where everything boasted clean, taut lines, and gleaming titanium details (these pieces were sturdy), I found myself yearning for the simplicity of the outdoors—well, the simplicity I would be afforded by having this entire, gleaming collection and spending a weekend living among it.
That’s essentially what Snow Peak, a Japanese brand dating back to 1958, is going for. Yukio Yamai started the company as a mountain climbing brand, before his son Tohru took over in 1980 and refocused it on car camping gear, specifically catering to people like himself who had busy lives in Tokyo and yearned for quiet sojourns in nature. Now, with an international footprint, it’s not just for busy Japanese businesspeople, but also burnt-out Americans, like myself.
“Our perspective on camping is informed by our Japanese heritage,” says Yuichi Uchida, chief brand officer for Snow Peak. “In Japan, nature and humans are viewed as one, with little distinction. We view camping as a way to return to that viewpoint.” In a simpler sense, their gear is, as Uchida says, “designed to bring the comforts of home to the outdoors.”
Since 1999, the brand has been a presence in Oregon (with a store, and even a restaurant inspired by Japanese campfires). In Fall 2022, Snow Peak hit the Big Apple, which is when I found out about it. I was quickly seduced by this idea—that no matter how demanding a traveler you might be, with the right gear, you can get outside in comfort and style.
On a five-day trip in coastal Maine, I put this theory to the test. To be clear, I am a camper—and usually, not a fussy one—but I also know what it means to have my pick of a great boutique hotel or a weekend among the trees, and what the latter needs to win in that match-up.
Snow Peak’s gear is a far cry from the ultralight, techy backpacking fare that REI Co-op members might ogle over. The idea here is that you have (or are going to rent) a car, with which you will drive your gorgeous gear to a scenic plot of land, posting up with loved ones for a trip in which time moves slow like honey. The value prop? You’ll come back restored, physically and mentally, because that is what camping with luxurious gear can do, even for city mice who usually prefer a high thread count. (It’s hardly cheap—but considering the lengths many travelers will go for some unwinding, a fair investment.)
With four friends, I packed my car with four Snow Peak folding chairs, an Alpha Breeze tent set, and a folding Takibi grill. I also took advantage of Snow Peak’s wide array of cook- and tableware (this folding cutting board, which provides safe storage for a knife, seemed brilliant). We were forced to leave our campsite table behind (impossible to fit in the already full trunk of my small SUV), which was one reminder that, while Snow Peak’s full-on set-ups are enviable, you aren’t likely to take the entire outdoor living room with you on most quick getaways.
Like every camping trip, I was afforded the time in nature I crave. We were a short walk from the crashing Atlantic, and surrounded by thick pines in which birds would chirp to life each morning. The tent, tall and spacious enough to stand in, felt like more than just a place to fall asleep—the awning and tarp entryway certainly helped. But perhaps what struck me most was that grill and the kitchenware. We loved using the Takibi grill so much, we ended up cooking not only hot dogs and local oysters on it as sun set each night, but even whipped it out to make toast for breakfast. It was easy to use and clean, so we didn’t dread lighting it up, or unfolding our cutting board yet again.
Huddled around that origami-like folding grill, passing hot coffee in the mornings, and a bottle of pét-nat at night, we were, essentially, a Snow Peak ad: City mice hit the woods for the weekend, and have no regrets.
