EGRV 9 | Night Snow (1)

“The snow was wet snow, melting into droplets on the skin.”

Leaving Liang Jiansheng’s lavish mansion, Liang Muye felt restless and stifled. Normally, he’d hit the gym for two hours. But new to the country and unfamiliar with the area, he texted Cheng Yang to ask about grabbing dinner. Cheng Yang replied instantly: no time.

Teasing, Liang Muye asked, Busy chasing someone?

Cheng Yang sent a wry emoji, followed by a quick voice message: “Got a last-minute gig shooting a livehouse performance—booked me online at noon. You know it’s impossible to get Coach Chi these days. You’ve got my building pass, right? If you forgot anything, just grab it, no need to wait.”

Liang Muye, who wasn’t into overeating or drinking, realized relaxing left him one option.

He scrolled back through his WeChat chats, stopping at Chi Yu’s profile. His avatar was quirky, a goofy expression. Liang Muye sent a message: “Coach Chi, when’s the next lesson?”

Chi Yu drove a deep red Toyota Highlander, likely secondhand, showing its age. No CarPlay, not even Bluetooth—the music played through a radio frequency adapter.

Liang Muye, climbing into the car, glanced at the odometer: 193,000 kilometers, probably from mountain roads. No surprise—Chi Yu had joked he wished he could use snow tires year-round. Liang Muye grinned, “You mean you wish it was winter year-round.”

Riding the night lift up the mountain, light snow fell. Chi Yu dangled one leg off the chairlift, pulling high-transmission lenses from his snowsuit pocket. It was cold, so he used one hand to swap the lenses. He often hit parks and features, so he skipped trendy magnetic lenses for traditional ones, which were a hassle to change.

Under the night lights, Liang Muye noticed Chi Yu’s snowsuit was damp and guessed, “You were here this morning?”

Chi Yu hummed. “Not here. Woke early, hit BC (Blackcomb) for first tracks. Some fresh snow.”

“Morning lessons?”

“Just training. Can’t coach all the time—no time to practice.”

When Chi Yu got Liang Muye’s message, he was busy at the shop. After a five- or six-hour shift, he decided to teach two lessons at a nearby resort: 7 to 9 p.m., then 9 to 10:30.

With Liang Muye, the two hours were easy. Chi Yu took him to a blue run with moguls to practice pressure-release edging. The recent snow made soft, knee-friendly moguls. Liang Muye was either naturally gifted or had strong skiing roots—Chi Yu rarely had to repeat instructions. A couple of runs, and he got it. By the end, he was navigating moguls shakily on his own.

The next hour and a half was grueling. A male student learning advanced techniques hadn’t mastered edging, leaning, or folding but insisted on one-foot carving. “One-foot” meant both feet aligned in the same direction, unlike the traditional duck stance, requiring less knee flexibility for a stable, open posture.

As a freeride snowboarder, Chi Yu favored a duck stance for easy switch riding. He wasn’t into technical carving, believing snowboarding’s joy lay in conquering varied terrain and snow conditions, not rote leaning on groomed runs.

But clients were king. In the mountaintop snowstorm, he pulled out a pocket screwdriver, tweaking his bindings to 36/27, stepping onto a soft park board to coach the guy.

While Chi Yu taught, Liang Muye skied alone, sometimes sharing their lift or run. He’d catch Chi Yu flying down with the student.

Chi Yu shunned technical carving, but to others, he was a master. Carving frontside, he leaned low, nearly 30 degrees to the snow, close enough to touch but never doing so. Hands behind his back, he relied purely on leaning and folding, balancing with rhythmic, powerful, clean elegance.

The green run’s snow was churned to slush, but his big S-turns were uniform, leaving a single deep line. Who’d guess he rode a flex-5 park board? He used it like a steel blade, legs pressing, shoulders locked, board nose always pointing where he intended, no matter the terrain.

Liang Muye, too engrossed watching, forgot Chi Yu’s advice—“look where you want to go.” He caught a front edge mid-turn, tumbling face-first down the slope.

His goggles nearly flew off, snow coating his helmet and neck. Looking up, he saw a red helmet under the warm yellow lights. Too far to hear, he tapped his helmet to signal he was fine.

But the red helmet slid closer. Chi Yu told the student to wait at the base, then knelt, reaching over Liang Muye’s head to fix his goggles.

Liang Muye, dazed from his first front-edge faceplant, tried to sit up.

Chi Yu pressed his helmet against his chest. “Don’t move.”

Once the goggles were secure, Liang Muye shook off the snow. Chi Yu gave a thumbs-up. “OK?”

The dim light hid Chi Yu’s expression behind his lenses. Liang Muye nodded.

“You’ve got the same issue. On steep terrain, you rush turns, open your shoulders, and twist, basically speed-checking down. Use your hips and eyes to guide edge turns. Scrub snow to slow down if needed, but keep your body aligned. Don’t look elsewhere.”

Liang Muye realized Chi Yu wasn’t just teaching—he’d been watching him practice too.

“I was watching you teach him,” Liang Muye said.

Chi Yu, mid-lesson, ignored him, brushed snow off his knees, and skied off.

But after the student’s session, with the resort nearly empty, Chi Yu called to Liang Muye, waiting in the snowy lift-top wind. “Hey, I’ll teach you open stance too.”

Liang Muye glanced at Chi Yu’s forward-angled bindings. “Has to be…”

“Not necessarily one-foot. 15/15 works, 12/12 too—any angle if your form’s right,” Chi Yu said. “Duck stance is more versatile. Don’t carve if you don’t want to. Skip one-foot.”

Despite the cold, Liang Muye’s voice was eager. “Let’s try it.”

Chi Yu, one leg in his binding, slid below, kneeling in the snow to guide him. “Sit on the ground, left hand to your right foot’s front edge… yeah, back edge feels like this. Lock shoulders, hips, knees; rotate knees outward…”

Before starting, Chi Yu clipped in, his helmet nearly touching Liang Muye’s. He told him to focus, adding, “The hardest run isn’t a black diamond—it’s the last one down.” Liang Muye nodded.

Once on edge, his speed surged, wind roaring in his ears. Snowflakes slapped his face; he wiped his goggles and kept going. The snow fell heavier, but he felt no cold—his legs and core burned, his body warm. Unable to see Chi Yu’s orange figure, he thought he’d left him behind, skiing faster with excitement. The city’s night skyline dotted the dark mountainside; he sped up, leaving the lights behind.

At the lift station, he looked up to see Chi Yu, board already split and in hand, waiting. Caught up in the thrill, Liang Muye showed off a high-speed backside scrub to speed-check, spraying Chi Yu with snow. Chi Yu, goggles and mask off, stood still, not dodging. The fresh, loose snow splattered his nose and face.

For a moment, Liang Muye wondered if he was mad.

But no. Chi Yu’s lips curled in a half-smile. “Don’t tell people I taught you that.” His smiles were subtle, hard to read at first.

As a coach, he spoke with authority, his face serious. But that run felt different. Liang Muye sensed they were like friends skiing together—parting at the top, meeting at the bottom, each in their own joy. Chi Yu’s eyes glinted with excitement, clearly stoked.

Liang Muye said he needed the restroom, so Chi Yu headed to the car to pack. In the lodge, he ran into Vicky from their earlier lesson. They chatted, delaying him ten minutes. At the parking lot, nearly all cars were gone, but he spotted Chi Yu’s deep red Highlander.

A thin layer of snow coated the car. Approaching, he saw Chi Yu asleep against the driver’s window. Unfazed by the cold, a crack in the window let snowflakes drift onto his shoulder and face. Wet snow, melting into droplets on his skin. He napped like that.