EGRV 4 | Pulling the Rope

“But that powdery snow forest, like the person by his side back then, was gone forever.”

British Columbia. After a blizzard, Whistler-Blackcomb was shrouded in mist, the freezing level dropping to 3,300 feet, with snow half a knee deep, thick and soft.

Off-piste at Blackcomb, the sun hadn’t yet cleared the dense fog, and visibility was low. But for powder snow sliding, the conditions were near perfect.

Two figures in bright snowsuits moved slowly toward higher ground, soon reaching the top of the ridge.

“Here’s good. Climbing higher… it won’t get any better. Riskier, too,” Chi Yu said, taking off his splitboard.

A splitboard, as the name suggests, is a snowboard that splits into two skis for climbing off-piste, saving time and energy. At the summit, it snaps back into a traditional snowboard for the buoyant powder descent.

“You’re going down from here?” His companion was Justin, an old friend from youth training camp, a Canadian from the East Coast.

Justin, a double-board skier, hadn’t made it big professionally and, after a serious injury, quit the competitive scene. Fresh out of university, he worked at a bank on the East Coast but took a work trip as an excuse to join Chi Yu off-piste. Chi Yu, ever loyal, let him crash at his place. They woke at 4 a.m., grabbed their gear, and drove into the mountains.

“This is what I train for,” Chi Yu said firmly, clicking his board together. The morning wind was loud, so he gestured “move forward” with his hand.

The forest’s start was steep, about 45 degrees. Justin, a double-board expert, figured he’d have to ease down, expecting Chi Yu to reassemble his board lower down. But…

Chi Yu went first. He leaned in, letting his center of gravity lead, the board following. For this terrain, he’d chosen a shorter, agile board. He twisted his body into tight, continuous S-turns, edges slicing precisely, like a spring, pressing and releasing.

Freestyle skiing has its branches, and Chi Yu dabbled in park jumps and slopestyle, even winning an X Games big air title at seventeen. But he chose to become a big-mountain freerider, shredding deep powder in North America’s resorts, leaping off cliffs in untracked off-piste zones. People say the big mountains are a snowboarder’s ultimate calling, and it’s true. He preferred infinite variables over finite challenges.

Like this area. The forest offered little margin for error—one wrong turn, too big or small, early or late, meant hitting a tree. Steep forested slopes only upped the stakes. For Chi Yu, once the board was assembled and bindings fastened, the decision was made. He didn’t like leaving himself an out.

Harsher environments demanded more from body and mind, making them the best training. He couldn’t afford daily heli-skiing, so resort off-piste zones, reachable by foot, were his proving grounds.

That morning, they’d risen early, hiked over half an hour past the lift’s top to reach this spot. A few tracks marred the snow, but it was still prime.

Justin followed, carving tight turns in Chi Yu’s deep tracks, like riding a singletrack trail, spared the burden of choosing a line. Double boards adapt better to varied terrain, and he descended smoothly.

The lower section eased up, and they skied separately, maintaining a front-back formation, speeding through the forest, kicking up whooshing gusts. Justin, worn out from work, felt his bones come alive, nearly tearing up from the thrill.

Nearing the bottom, Chi Yu suddenly braked hard in front of a tree.

“Wait!”

Justin stopped instantly. “What’s up?”

Chi Yu’s eyes caught a flash of red—not an animal, too bright, nor dropped gear, but…

The iconic red base of a Korua board.

“Someone’s buried! Quick, help me!”

Chi Yu kicked off his bindings, flipped his board to keep it elevated, and dropped his backpack.

“You okay? Say something!” Fresh snow meant he always carried an avalanche rescue kit, including a portable shovel, for off-piste runs like this. Assembling the shovel was too slow, so he dove in, digging with his hands.

The person was buried head-down, only their board visible, legs flailing, clearly unable to free themselves.

A classic tree well burial. Tree wells form deep, hidden cavities around trees as snow settles, easily covered by fresh powder, invisible from above.

Chi Yu had avalanche training; Justin, a bit rusty, followed his lead silently. They dug frantically for two or three minutes, finally pulling the trapped person from the well.

“You alright?” Chi Yu shouted, removing the person’s goggles to check.

The victim, flushed and struggling to breathe, gasped, “I’m fine.” After a moment, he said, “Chi Yu, Coach Chi, is that you? Or am I hallucinating?”

Chi Yu stared, stunned. “Zhang Chenxiao?”

Zhang Chenxiao, nearing thirty, was a wealthy snowboard enthusiast who didn’t work, spending his days on the slopes. Chi Yu knew plenty like him. Zhang rode Korua’s priciest powder board, even sporting a GoPro on his helmet when pulled from the well. Among rich kids, he was decent—last spring, he’d taken two lessons from Chi Yu. Chi Yu figured he’d scared him off with harsh critiques, as Zhang never returned.

Once Zhang recovered, he claimed he was fine, but Chi Yu dragged him to the base for a check-up.

“Going off-piste alone is too dangerous. No avalanche kit, thick fresh snow, unfamiliar run—just for a video? You trying to die?” Chi Yu lectured in Chinese, ignoring Justin’s bewildered look.

By the time they summited again, others had tracked the forest, spoiling its pristine state—a pity.

“Still, saving a life makes for a good morning,” Justin said optimistically.

Chi Yu, having spent his words, just hummed in response.

“This was the funnest powder forest I’ve ever skied,” Justin continued, seeking agreement. “Your top one, right?”

Chi Yu paused, then said, “It’s great, but not the best.”

Justin was shocked. “Where’s better—higher, more open?” Then it clicked. “Revelstoke, right? With your friend.”

Chi Yu hummed again.

Years ago, he’d spent a long snow season near Calgary. Revelstoke wasn’t higher or more open than here, but it held Liang Yichuan’s favorite off-piste run, nicknamed “Shortcut Forest” for cutting between two main trails.

Liang Yichuan, a lifelong good student, only broke rules at the resort, taking shortcuts. Snowboarding, in the end, is about feeling, not data—the moment of leaning in. Back then, Chi Yu’s world was simpler. Sunsets pierced the forest, he and his friend skied front-back, carving untouched powder, leaving the rest of the world behind. He’d since gotten better, with lighter, higher-float boards, but that powder forest, like the person by his side back then, was gone forever.

Beijing Miyun, Tianxian Icefall.

“My camera can go lower—you don’t need to worry about me when setting the route. My rope’s long enough,” Liang Muye said into the walkie-talkie, shouting down, “Camera One, pan down a bit, watch the frame.”

Only upon arriving did Liang Muye learn he was a stand-in for Zhao Yan, a hotshot in outdoor commercial photography with a slew of awards. Though a backup, Liang Muye had climbed more routes than Zhao Yan had eaten meals.

The job was a panoramic shoot. Zhao Yan’s plan was to set up a tripod and shoot upward with a long-focus tilt-shift lens. His assistant brought the detailed plan, gear ready, just awaiting execution.

Liang Muye reviewed it, then crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the recycling bag two minutes later.

Zhao Yan’s assistant and the client’s rep, Mr. Zheng, exchanged glances.

“Why shoot from the ground when I can climb the wall?” Liang Muye said.

“Our gear…” Zheng Chengling, a climbing enthusiast himself, opened the pickup’s tailgate to check equipment.

Liang Muye followed. “Static rope?”

“About 80 meters.”

“Dry rope?”

“Of course.”

“That’s enough. The icefall’s only 115 meters. I’ll climb and set the line from above. Ascender?”

“Hand ascender, no chest. One harness, maybe just one leg strap…” Zheng, sweating, counted. “Sorry, didn’t expect you’d climb. This is leftover from my last project. You’d better double-check.”

Liang Muye didn’t mind. “Hand ascender’s fine. I’m carrying the 1D, not building a skyscraper.”

Zhao Yan’s plan used a Canon C300 with a 90mm tilt-shift for static shots. Liang Muye’s was to climb the ice wall with a Canon 1D, suspended on a static rope, shooting at the climbers’ level. The assistant could use the preset C300 for ground-level panoramas. The superiority was obvious.

The first morning, he spent two hours rigging the rope system and testing positions. The weather cooperated, with perfect light and ridge conditions, meeting the client’s requirements by day’s end.

Zheng Chengling, reviewing the proofs, was so excited he shed his fleece, pounding Liang Muye’s shoulder. “It’s gotta be our Muye. You were the first to shoot Miyun ice climbing back in the day. Your documentary, Life Like a Mountain—I got the DVD from a friend, watched it a dozen times…”

Liang Muye knew. A decade ago, in nearly the same icefall zone, he’d filmed Zhong Yanyun, then twenty-six, attempting the capital’s highest icefall without protection. Liang Muye, just twenty and in photography school, called it madness now.

The client initially wanted Zhao Yan, who bailed last minute, but by a stroke of luck, Zheng landed Liang Muye—harder to book by a hundredfold in his eyes.

The second day, warmer weather melted parts of the ice, erasing yesterday’s route overnight. Liang Muye’s shooting plan shifted, even pulling and resetting anchor points. The team didn’t mind, saying it was the thrill of ice climbing.

Fully geared in a helmet, Liang Muye endured falling meltwater like rain near the ice wall, soaking his helmet with sweat. At sunset, Zheng called it a wrap, saying no third day was needed and inviting Liang Muye to climb new routes. “Been a while, right? They’re graded now, WI3…”

Liang Muye smiled, waving it off. “I’ve sold most of my gear. I’ll pass, Mr. Zheng.”

“Don’t be shy—we’ve got gear. Name it.”

Seeing Liang Muye’s reluctance, Zheng understood. “Settling down, huh? Someone at home? I get it—this line of work’s like that. Let’s work together again sometime.” Ice climbing’s risks outstrip traditional climbing, which is why they struggled to find a photographer willing to shoot parallel on a rope.

Liang Muye nodded his thanks, saying no more.

While packing gear, Xiao Tang brought his phone. “It’s been ringing non-stop. You should take it.”

Liang Muye never kept his phone on him during outdoor climbs—an old habit to avoid distractions. Though this was a shoot, old habits died hard, so Xiao Tang held his phone.

The caller was his home landline, likely his mother, Han Zhixia, calling him for dinner.

Unaware he was out, Han Zhixia chatted briefly before saying, “Muye, I know you’re busy, but visit your dad before year-end.”

Following the Leave No Trace (LNT) principle, the team removed all ice anchors, respecting nature. Even Zheng climbed up to help. Liang Muye stayed on the ground, pulling rope. With 80 meters draped over his shoulders, he slowed at Han Zhixia’s words.

“Let him call me himself,” he said calmly, continuing to untie the rope’s safety knot. “What do you want for dinner? I’m heading back from Miyun—can grab something for us.”

The rope snapped free from the carabiner. He kept winding it over his shoulders.

Han Zhixia, knowing she couldn’t sway him, sighed. “Yunnan food. Nothing too oily.”

“Got it, don’t worry.”