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  • Photo: John Webster

    In the whitewater mecca of Asheville, North Carolina, the first Saturday of November belongs to the Green River Narrows Race. First established 20 years ago by a group of 16 hard-charging locals, the race has grown into one of the country’s most competitive and respected, with the biggest names in the sport returning year after year to battle it out.

    There’s no money on the line and no barrier to entry. But it’s been called the Super Bowl of Kayaking for good reason, packing a raucous audience atop the tight canyon walls of what locals call the bedrock coliseum. As photographer John Webster discovered, it’s also a damn good time.

    Photo: The three-quarter-mile-long course is notoriously brutal, taking paddlers through a chain of powerful class V rapids punctuated by a narrow 18-foot drop dubbed Gorilla. But it’s what happens out of the water that sets the Green race apart: whereas most backcountry whitewater competitions only draw a handful of spectators, the Green packs the crowd ten-deep, with spectators just feet from the the river, their cheers and hollers blasting off the tight canyon walls.
  • Photo: John Webster

    In the days leading up the 2015 race, a record 161 racers descended on Hendersonville, North Carolina, the closest town to the course put-in. “There were kayaks all over the place--along the highway, at gas stations, at the Waffle House,” said Webster, a Boise-based kayaker. “Everyone was speaking the same language of whitewater.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    The Green River is dam-released, meaning kayakers can count on reliable flows almost 300 days a year. This year, heavy rains, coupled with a scheduled double release, meant the river was running above 200 percent—hovering around 20 inches, more than double the normal eight—in the days leading up to the race. The water level dropped half a foot by race day but not before breaking a few paddles.
  • Photo: John Webster

    The combination of consistent, year-round flow and the dynamic hydraulics from the tight Green River gorge has nurtured a vibrant whitewater community and kept the race, one of the sport’s oldest, relevant. “There are a lot of rad paddlers here who deserve a well run race on their home river,” said race organizer John Grace, who competed for the 16th time this year, just days after his wife gave birth to twins. “This is a worthy group and worthy river.” Paddler Curt Lamberth is pictured here.
  • Photo: John Webster

    The race is light-hearted—the waiver includes the clause “I have been warned of the stupidity of this activity”—but the stakes are high. Racers gathered around the starting line to blow off steam and catch up with friends. “Paddling is intense, especially when you’re doing it on a really high level,” said Shane Benedict, co-founder of Hendersonville-based kayak maker Liquidlogic, which calls the Green its home river. “And that intensity tends to transfer over to your relationships.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    Paddlers gathered around race organizer Jason Hale. Hale, who was part of the inaugural race and holds the record for participating the most number of times (18), is the spiritual leader of the race. In his outgoing voicemail message, he says, “A clean river is a like a mean shiver. Who's racing, who's chasing, who’s placing? Going to be on top, don't stop. Go left, go fast. Leave a message.” His pre-race speech—part Braveheart monologue, part pep talk—is the stuff of legends, and includes the warning: “You will hear a roar like you’ve never heard before!”
  • Photo: John Webster

    To reach the river in time for the high-noon start, spectators scramble two miles down a rain-sodden ravine. This year, a record 1,500 committed to the rainy hour-long hike in, hauling in dogs, chairs, and lots of blankets.
  • Photo: John Webster

    The winner receives a stained glass trophy made by local paddler Todd Graff. “We all know we're not going to make any money racing the Green,” said Adriene Levknecht, a top kayaker from Greenville, South Carolina, whose seven wins have earned her the nickname Queen of the Green. “We do it for the energy, the vibe, the spectators—for when you come around the corner of Gorilla and 700 people are standing in a gorge.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    This year, the competition was buzzing with talk of breaking the elusive four-minute barrier. (The course record is 4:10, set in 2012 by Mike Dawson during high water.) Ultimately only the women’s record fell, with the 27-year-old Levknecht posting a 4:38, beating the 2013 record of 4:43. A record 60 racers finished in less than five minutes. “A lot of events are just about the top two or three,” Grace said. “But we make a point to celebrate first-time racers and those who, after four or five years of racing, finally broke the five-minute barrier as much as the champions.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    One of the Green’s greatest challenges is that some of the heaviest whitewater lies near the end of the course. Racers have already battled major rapids, like Go Left or Die, when they come up on Gorilla, a chain of whitewater made up of five ominously named segments like Pencil Sharpener and Scream Machine. “It’s steep, it’s continuous, and the hardest rapids don't come until you’re two-thirds of the way through,” said Grace. “There aren’t a lot of races where you’re hitting the hardest rapids tired.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    Gorilla is considered the course’s crux rapid. Its 18-foot drop is no joke, but it’s the Notch, a four-foot wide slot leading into the falls, that gives paddlers nightmares.

    “Right above it, there’s a funky little pinch that can easily screw people up and cause them to flip over, turn around, go another direction,” said Dane Jackson (not pictured), a 22-year-old from Rock Island, Tennessee, who has earned a reputation as one of the world’s best kayakers. “It’s nerve-wracking because that goes right into Gorilla and if you go upside down, backwards, or swim it, it’s not fun at all.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    Most race in long boats, which have always won the overall category, but the Green also has divisions for C1 (closed cockpit canoe), OC1 (open canoe), short boat (under 9 feet), and hand paddling, plus the occasional tandem.
  • Photo: John Webster

    Liquidlogic’s Benedict was part of the first Green Race in 1996 and, now 50, was this year’s oldest racer. A Hendersonville local—he bought his house because of its path down to the Green—his “50” bib was a crowd favorite. “I was trying to stay serious, but I came into [the Notch] and the yell was so loud, a smile broke across my face,” he said. “I couldn't even help it. But then I had to focus in again because I was coming up on Gorilla.”
  • Photo: John Webster

    Racers are separated at the starting line by one minute, but pile-ups can happen when paddlers get stuck in a bad eddy lines.
  • Photo: John Webster

    Some people have called for stricter restrictions on inexperienced paddlers, but others have commended the race for hosting a range of competitors while maintaining one of the sport’s best safety records. This year, 21 river safety workers took on the challenge of completing live bait rescues—meaning rescuers enter the water while tethered to shore—in high water.
  • Photo: John Webster

    There were no major accidents this year, but the narrow canyon walls left their marks on competitors in the form of bloody knuckles and noses.
  • Photo: John Webster

    The Green is unabashedly homegrown, ruling out sponsor banners on the water and instead collecting just enough funding to cover race costs. The race also opts to “leave the river like the river wants to be,” according to Grace, which means not removing natural obstructions, like the fallen tree pictured here. Racers unhappy with the conditions are given the option to ask for a refund, although race officials have never been taken up on the offer.
  • Photo: John Webster

    For the first time, first place overall was a tie between Frenchman Eric Deguil, who also won the short boat category, earning him the Ironman title, and Dane Jackson. Jackson had finished second for the last three years, including last year, when a third watch clocked him a tenth of a second slower than Isaac Levinson. “It’s an extremely difficult race. It’s long and there’s a lot of paddling and you only get one chance to get a good run,” Jackson said. “But it’s an incredible experience coming out of corners and seeing the crowd—it’s like a stadium.”
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