OUR FIRST NIGHT IN BIG BAY, Harro apologizes: "One thing you haven't heard about New Zealand are the midgies. I bought you all head nets." New Zealand sand flies, known as "midgies," are why the orcs from the Lord of the Rings films seem so pissed off. There are billions of them—black, pin-size, elusive, ruthless biters. They inject their foulness into Gary Elkerton's neck until, by day two, it becomes a reptilian horror of nasty welts.

We planned to work Big Bay's surf and sand for a week, but after two days of itchy and scratchy and no skiing, Harro does what all good storm chasers do: changes direction. He retrieves the satellite phone and summons the planes, which pick us up right on the beach, at low tide. By noon we're in the groovy, lakeside resort town of Wanaka, brunching alongside college-age snowboard chicks.

The next day, a rented RV and beaten minivan trundle us 35 minutes west of Wanaka to Treble Cone, a First World ski area reached via a Third World access road, with slippery switchbacks and 5.8 exposure. Harro herds us up to the base area, then disappears inside to cajole ten lift tickets out of the marketing department. Freeskier Sage Cattabriga-Alosa pounds a Red Bull past his scratchy beard. Boarder Eric Themel—who served as a snowboard instructor after avoiding mandatory service in the Austrian army by claiming he was clinically shy and afraid of the dark—shares boarding tips with surfer Jamie Sterling, who's snowboarded exactly two days in his life. Surfer Mark Visser is still suffering from the flu, retching and invisible. Meanwhile surfer Gary Elkerton raves about his first boarding in France. "I was going so fucking fast, like it's Waimea, and I hit ten French people," he says. "There was blood all over the snow. Surfers are always trying to generate more speed by working waves. But with gravity …" His eyebrows rise conspiratorially.

Once the lift tickets materialize, the group splinters. Elkerton beelines for a natural halfpipe, touching his right hand to the snow like he touched the gray surf of Big Bay. Flahr and Cattabriga-Alosa start hunting trannies and takeoffs, hauling fast down the steeps and effortlessly hurling into the air, making new-school grabs. When they find a ridge-and-knob-studded stash beneath a chairlift, they pull tricks that induce the lift riders to whoop and cheer.

It's a brilliantly sunny day, and Harro strives to make it YouTube-worthy. With sponsors, magazines, newspapers, blogs, and newsletters to satisfy, he needs content, dammit. He sets up a tripod on the snow and coaxes video interviews from the athletes. Elkerton makes a point of us all being "blessed to be heah." Sterling says some nice words about his new friends being "creative, active athletes. I've never hung with skiers and snowboarders before." But Johan Olofsson, who shows spunk and a wry sense of humor in conversation, becomes downright bland once the camera goes on. Harro tries to egg him on but gets only Bill Belichick–like responses. "All right, mate," Harro sighs, "go eat some pies and drink some beer."