EGRV 7 | Up the Mountain

“What angle do you like?”

Through Cheng Yang, Liang Muye added Chi Yu on WeChat, sending a friendly emoji to say hello.

At eleven p.m., he got a new message.

Chi Yu asked, “What angle do you like?”

Liang Muye almost misunderstood.

A moment later, Chi Yu sent pairs of numbers:

“12 12”

“15 9”

“18 12…???”

Liang Muye realized he was asking about binding angles. In a good mood, he typed back, “Whatever Coach says,” adding a smiley face.

Chi Yu sent an “OK” gesture and went quiet.

Liang Muye figured he’d just come down from the mountain, probably prepping the board and bindings for tomorrow. He recalled Chi Yu in the shop, screwdriver in mouth, waxing a board. His curly hair, a messy mop, was stuffed under an orange knit cap. His hoodie hung loose, a single small earring in his left ear.

Cheng Yang had filled him in: Chi Yu was once a big-mountain freestyle snowboarder. Liang Muye knew plenty of skiers in China, mostly Liang Yichuan’s childhood teammates, and had watched his brother’s youth competitions. Big-mountain freeriding wasn’t big in China, lacking tradition or prominent riders. Still, he’d heard wild stories about freeriders.

Looking at Chi Yu, with his sloppy clothes and curt speech, he seemed like the type to strut with his chin up, eyeing people sideways. Freeriders revered nature, not humans—a stereotype Chi Yu fit perfectly.

Cheng Yang arranged for them to meet Chi Yu for a lesson on Friday morning.

Chi Yu was young, maybe less experienced than some coaches, but his skills spoke for themselves. His X Games fame drew parents hoping their kids would catch some of his magic. His weekends were booked solid. Cheng Yang sent multiple WeChat messages to snag an extra lesson, saying he was flexible for weekdays, and Chi Yu settled on Friday.

Cheng Yang also invited Vicky, a girl who’d taken lessons with him before. On the drive up, Vicky thanked Cheng Yang profusely, saying she’d never have gotten a slot without him.

Liang Muye asked, “He’s that hard to book?” He shot a sidelong glance at Cheng Yang in the driver’s seat.

Vicky jumped in from the back. “You bet! Last May, on closing day, someone spread the word—dozens watched him hit the park, flipping multiple times, sliding into the pond, then popping up to thread the trees…”

Whistler’s tradition: closing day turns skiing into waterskiing.

Vicky pulled out her phone to show a shaky, blurry video. A figure in dark green snow gear spun over three times on the jump, landed cleanly, and shot straight down the slope. Melted snow pooled into a pond at mid-mountain; with speed and buoyancy, he skimmed across like a water-walking martial artist. The crowd was huge—he not only crossed the pond but had enough speed to pop a flat 360 on the other side.

Liang Muye was unfazed. “Impressive.” He’d known too many pro athletes to be starstruck. Chi Yu looked young, coaching likely meant his pro career didn’t pan out. He just didn’t say it.

They reached the resort by nine. Chi Yu had skied a few runs of “corduroy snow” to warm up before meeting them at the base. He’d left the city at five a.m., arriving by seven to catch the first lift. Freshly groomed runs, pressed into ridges by snowcats, were smooth and perfect—called “corduroy snow.”

His bright orange snowsuit and red helmet, plastered with stickers—his shop’s logo, 686 brand decals, and random signatures—stood out against the white snow.

Cheng Yang and Vicky acted like fans, filming Chi Yu’s coaching. Liang Muye didn’t pull out his phone, asking technical questions instead. Chi Yu was reserved but patient with professional explanations, talking until his throat burned. While Vicky hit the mid-mountain café’s restroom, he chugged water.

“I know you’ve got good balance and learn fast, but don’t rush. Speed deforms your form. Nail the standard S-turn first—once you edge properly, you’ll be fast and stable,” Chi Yu said, gulping water. Some spilled down his chin; he wiped it carelessly with his face mask.

Chi Yu’s small face, tucked into a lightweight helmet, nearly disappeared under his goggles. Liang Muye stared.

“What?” Chi Yu noticed, thinking his helmet or goggles were off. He took off the helmet to check.

“How old are you?”

As if challenging his authority, Chi Yu deflected, “Irrelevant for now. Ask later.”

Probably four or five years younger, Liang Muye thought, shifting his gaze to the blindingly white snow outside.

The last time he skied was with Wang Nan’ou and friends, trying alpine skiing. He’d sent photos to Liang Yichuan, saying they should come here together. Over the years, he’d sent similar messages—his ideas, Yichuan’s agreement, then silence. Yichuan was training abroad, separated by time zones and the North Pacific, but Liang Muye sensed it was more than that.

“Got it?” Chi Yu asked again, seeing him silent.

“Yeah.” Liang Muye flashed an OK gesture.

“Practice on your own. I’ll take them for one last run. They’re slower, can’t keep up with you. I’ll take you for a couple solo runs after.”

“You don’t eat?” Liang Muye asked.

Chi Yu shrugged. “I skip meals sometimes—used to it. If you’re eating, I’ll wait.”

Liang Muye quickly said, “Nah, I’m good.”

Vicky returned, cozying up to Chi Yu. “Coach Chi, let’s hit Emerald later. You can do some big air jumps.”

Chi Yu stepped back, sheepish. “It’s fine, I hear you.” He pulled a silver-gray hearing aid from his snowsuit’s zip pocket and put it in his right ear.

Liang Muye, standing nearby, realized Chi Yu hadn’t worn it while talking to him earlier, even when they were nose-to-nose. He hadn’t asked him to step back.

Chi Yu shook his head at Vicky. “Wearing Step Ons today—can’t jump. Sorry.”

Burton’s Step On bindings clipped in with a step, great for quick on-off but with less contact area, causing delayed response and instability for big park jumps. He never used quick bindings for his own runs, only for coaching convenience.

Liang Muye didn’t join the hype, politely asking, “Coach, when can I train jumps? Take me out.”

Chi Yu didn’t indulge him. “Work on your switch stance first.” Without looking, he stretched his leg, clicked the binding shut with a crisp snap, and glided off.

Liang Muye watched him zip away, shaking his head with a smile.

Chi Yu was meticulous as a coach, not what Liang Muye expected. He was professional, experienced even. But young, not great at reading people or playing the game. If he were savvier, he’d see Vicky was there to film him, Cheng Yang to flirt, and Liang Muye to pass the time.