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Patagonia Baggies occupy a weird space in the menswear landscape. They’re as venerated by hardboiled fashion geeks as they are outdoor sports buffs; beloved by Pusha T and climbing legend Tommy Caldwell; equally at home on the subway as they are in the woods. Even if you’re not familiar familiar with them, you'd be able to ID them if you saw them, like a song that you know the words to but not the name of. You probably have friends who wear them all the time—heck, you probably owned a pair yourself at one point or another, maybe after this very publication convinced you to buy 'em.
Which is to say, they’re so deeply ingrained in the psyche, so consistent in their ubiquity, that they’d be at risk of fading into the background if their silhouette wasn’t so identifiable, their colors so particular. Which also helps explain why just about every brand worth its weight in crinkly nylon sells something that amounts to an “updated” version of Patagonia's flagship shorts.
Today, though, we're not here to talk about the luxe designer riffs or the mass-market knockoffs: we’re here to talk about the originals because, even after decades in the limelight, they hit harder than ever. Trust me—I would know.
A Slimmed-Down History of Patagonia Baggies
In 1982, Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard conceived of Baggies as a “do-it-all short”—one he could theoretically hike, climb, swim, bike, camp, and do whatever else in—and they've remained relatively unchanged since. That’s a great thing. Because while other brands have dipped into their archives to reproduce silhouettes from that era, not always successfully, Patagonia has been playing its Greatest Hit over and over, dialing in every single note on a molecular level while delivering a product that feels as authentic to the source material now as it did then.
What Are They Made Of?
Baggies have basically looked the same since Ozzy Osbourne ate that bat, but the materials they're made from have changed ever so slightly over the decades. Historically, Patagonia cut them from a fluttery, quick-drying, twill-like nylon; in 2018, the brand switched to a recycled version of the fabric. But if I hadn’t told you, you'd likely never know—I own pairs from both eras and I have no idea which are which. It doesn't matter when I bought them: that soft, lightweight, surprisingly sturdy nylon feels exactly the same.
And while the nylon body is the star of the show, the featherweight mesh that lines its inside is equally important. It's strong enough to handle the stress of your sundry knickknacks, and the pocket bags allow water to freely pass through, providing ventilation and a close approximation of a cross-breeze.
What Makes Them Different?
Technically, Baggies are, well, technical shorts. But don’t expect any next-gen specs or NASA-engineered hardware. They come equipped with three pockets, an elastic waistband, a mesh liner, and that's about it—but the rock-solid execution allows for each of those components to punch well above their weight class.
The hand pockets are big enough to hold a regulation-size water bottle, or whatever 16-20 oz. beverage you prefer. There’s a convenient bungie loop inside the right pocket for your keys. There’s a back pocket that snaps shut. (An extra back pocket would be nice, but I’ve never really felt like I needed it.) The mesh pocket bags drain fast and don’t weigh you down while you're swimming. The liner is supportive and breathable, but also takes to a pair of scissors easily if liners aren’t your thing. The elastic waistband is forgiving yet secure, and stays put without digging. And, perhaps most crucially, the nylon actually gets better with wear, gradually softening over time.
How Do They Fit?
Baggies are, as the name implies, baggy. They run true to size, but their elastic waistband offers plenty of wiggle room. As you probably know, they also come in two lengths: the reliably-preferred 5-inch version and the relatively unsung 7-inch counterpart. The 5-inch provides a short-and-roomy silhouette, flaring out a bit towards the hemline and hitting somewhere around mid-thigh. The 7-inch is similarly baggy, and also flares out a touch, but it hits somewhere between the lower thigh and right above the knee.
Like most sane people, I prefer the 5-inch, but I size up for a little added length and volume, and then cinch the waist. That hack kind of splits the difference between the two versions, and lets the 5-inch fall a few inches above my knee—any lower and whatever's in my pocket will play percussion on my knee cap, a perennial hazard for people with shorter legs.
Another element to consider: The rise here is slightly longer than usual, so if the inseam feels real short at first, relax—when you don't wear them at your natural waist, and you likely won't, they seem a touch longer than expected.
What Should I Wear Them With?
I've worn Baggies to do pretty much everything you can in shorts. (I haven't played any winter sports in them, but yes, others have. ) They’ve acted as my default swimsuit for about a decade; performed admirably as climbing shorts; been hiked in, biked in, surfed in, kayaked in, rafted in, partied in, napped in, sauna’d in and, on at least one occasion, kept my lower half protected aboard an AC72 sailboat used in the America’s Cup because I didn’t know what else to wear on an AC72 sailboat used in the America’s Cup.
When it comes to styling them, I try not to overthink it or lean too hard into their gorp-y bona fides. A loose T-shirt works great (shocker), as does a roomy cotton sweater. I wear them with button-ups pretty regularly, and you will 1000% catch me wearing them with a big ol’ tank at various points this summer. In terms of shoes, my devotion to the Birkenstock Boston knows no limits, but anything clog-adjacent with a generous toe box works, too, as do most of my sneakers—Nike Vomeros, New Balance 990s, Adidas Sambas. Even casual-leaning loafers are fair game in the right context.
Do I Really Need a Pair?
If you’ve never owned a pair of Patagonia Baggies, first of all, apologies. I’m sure whatever reason you have is valid, but you’ve been seriously depriving yourself of the Platonic ideal summer short. They’re lightweight but not flimsy, they offer cargo-volume storage without the bulky cargo pockets, the generous cut flatters pretty much all legs, and they come in every color under the sun. Oh, right—they also cost, like, $65 full price, and you can often find them cheaper than that, which feels almost criminal considering they last forever.
I’m sure they have a downside, but I’ve spent a lot of time searching for one and keep coming up empty. I could nit-pick here, but that feels thoroughly out of whack with the Baggies MO: they’re shorts, after all, which means that there’s a ceiling to their seriousness and no end to their utility. And as far as I’m concerned, there are very few situations that demand shorts more serious than them, and hundreds that benefit from their utility.
So, do I recommend them? Without even the slightest reservations. I’ve recommended my favorite restaurants more apprehensively than I recommend these. Worst-case scenario, you wind up with a beach-ready pair of swim shorts. Best-case, you finally hack your new summer uniform. Sounds like a win-win to me.