A COUPLA DAYS LATER, skiers, boarders, and surfers reunite, and we're in the Wanaka offices of Harris Mountains Heli-Ski—the map room, to be specific—preparing to lift into the pristine alpine above 7,000 feet. Harro asks snowboarders Eric Themel and Johan Olofsson to coach surfer Jamie Sterling, who's taking a helicopter to the backcountry on just his third day of riding. "The bastard surfs 70-foot waves, and says he's never been more scared in his life," Harro says. Sterling ends up freaking a bit on the steeper pitches, yet he harnesses athletic ability, like no other three-day snowboarder in history, to rail most slopes.

We head west to the peaks, and there they are: the sheep. New Zealand is nutty for the lambies. You'll hear sheep-population estimates anywhere between 40 million and 70 million, which are invariably accompanied by the ratio to human New Zealanders. These are overwhelming numbers—12:1 or 25:1 or what ever—and would be terrifying to Kiwis in the unlikely event that sheep develop opposable thumbs or any semblance of brains. "Stop!" yells an assistant cameraman as we drive past a 400-strong flock. "I think one winked at me."

The helipad is a sheep pasture. Dragging our boards and packs over to the pickup zone, we keep eyes peeled for mutton bombs. The spring conditions are pleasant, but the runs are measured in hundreds of vertical feet, not thousands. The terrain's not quite big enough to blow the mind of You, the End Consumer, so Harro decides we've got to move, that we'll wake before dawn tomorrow, travel a good chunk of the South Island, and hook up again with Harris Mountains Heli-Ski on the flanks of the Ben Ohau Range. "Not to say I don't get frustrated," Harro says, smiling, "but nothing's a problem unless you make it one."

A short night and untold roadside lambies later, we arrive at another heli-pad. Higher up, the riding is superb. Olofsson and Themel rip bold, nearly straight lines down 40-degree pitches. Flahr and Cattabriga-Alosa pack loose snow on top of their boots while awaiting their cues: When they air a cliff or cornice, the snow boils off—a trick to create more spray for the camera. Perfect corn runs stretch three, maybe four thousand vertical feet. Surfer Gary Elkerton puts his extensive experience in the original, older Alps to use, powering hard on his back leg, almost popping a wheelie. "Woo-hoo!" he yells. "Can we do anuthuh? That was un-fucking-believable! This is like Jaws and that stuff yesterday was shore break."

That night, we skip dinner and party like rock stars at the skiers' rented house. Cattabriga-Alosa and I hide our gear in a bedroom, as the rest of the house seems a potential puke zone. The Hobbit-like Sterling, all of five-eight and baby-faced, can't keep up with the Famous Grouse shots. His eyes roll independently of each other and his head lolls.

The athletes, at least, consider the cross-pollinated, surf-and-snow excursion a mega-success. "An awesome array of sportsmen … in the most extreme place in the world," beams Elkerton. In the end, though, it really doesn't matter what the athletes think. They're not the market here. They're more new-school wildebeests in Harro's grand photo safari. The whole point is the imagery. The stills on these pages, the streaming video and slide shows popping up on dozens of Web sites. Whether it works is for You, the End Consumer, to judge. What do You think?