Cars extend almost a quarter mile down the winding twists of Big Hungry Road, boasting tags from as far as Montana and exposing the Pulliam Creek Trail that leads to the Narrows, aka, some of the most notorious rapids ever run by kayakers.

The Narrows aren't easy on the spectators either.

More than a hike, it is a climb, and people slide rather than walk down the mountainside.

Once you've started, gravity won't allow turning back.

The race that lures these elite kayakers has been canceled.

The dam-released river is overflowing with excessive rain and running at two to three times the normal level.

Only the elite, hardcore, the crazy - or as one paddler put it, "the Michael Jordans of kayaking," - would attempt to ride it in such a condition.

As it turns out, today the elite, hardcore and crazy are present and they will brave the extra-fast class V rapids regardless - and maybe because of - the intense flow.

And so, as if to say 'if they can do it, we can watch it,' people are here to witness the glory and the insanity.

One hiker, Leah McDowell, herself a kayaker - though not the Green kind - laughs a little at the question of why she would come out to watch a non- race.

"It's the Narrows," she says matter-of-factly. "It's big stuff."

After a short distance, but a long trek, they arrive at Gorilla - the class- V rapid that is both the nemesis and the pride of all kayakers on the river.

For racers and spectators, just getting to Gorilla takes serious commitment.

Gorilla needs no explanation in the kayaking world. It is the end-all, be- all in rapids. And its position at the end of the race makes it even more daunting.

"The way the Green is, there are 10 other rapids spaced out between the two class fives," says Tommy Hilleke, a nine-year kayaking veteran and four- time Green River Race winner. And Gorilla, says Hilleke, is "the highest end."

The Narrows, as it's known around national kayaking circles, has taken place the first weekend in November since 1991. Still, information travels word-of-mouth and lack of widespread dissemination adds a certain mystique.

Dedication, sweat and water converge on the banks of the Green River, and there is a sense that those who should know about this race already do.

"It's just kind of a grassroots thing," says Nate Elliott, a six-year kayaking veteran. "And with the difficulty of the rapids and the number of class five rapids that you have to race through, there aren't that many people that really would wanna race it."

A lot can happen from the moment of drop off to 203 feet to just below Gorilla. A paddler could end up backwards or upside down, stuck in a hydraulic (a re-circulating spot of water) or swimming the entire way.

"It could get ugly, or it could be really good," says Jennifer Cribbs, a kayaker of nine years and one of five female racers.

Over the Thanksgiving weekend, an Asheville college student and experienced kayaker died navigating this section of the Green. His death was a reminder that even years of paddling experience is no guarantee of success on the Narrows.

"I've lost close friends to paddling before," Hilleke says. "And I don't know. Definitely there's part of you that wants to turn away. You just have to keep doing it, I guess. Plus, you know your friends loved it and they wouldn't quit, or you would hope that they wouldn't quit."

But Gorilla and the Narrows, he says, are "unforgiving for sure."

Sixty-five or so people stand perched on a boulder to watch what most people would consider crazy. Children are bundled in sleeping bags next to their parents, who eat homemade sandwiches beside barefoot college students chugging water from Nal-Gene bottles. The roar of the river acts as foreman to the rare, silent co-existence of humans and nature.

"It's a freedom thing," Elliott says. "You're outside in pretty, natural, untouched space. We get to see lots of places that nobody else ever gets to see."

As the racers descend on the narrows, fellow paddlers cheer them on by name, shouting through the roar of the rapids.

One kayaker breaks a paddle over the course of his run. His brethren immediately rally, tossing a line to pull him to safety. It is the only time all day that there is a noticeable sense of fear.

But it passes in seconds and the paddle-less racer reaches "the happy place," a refuge behind a side rock, where he is shielded from the crushing water, without injury.

The steepness of the mountain and the danger of the extreme sport push people together, but the rest seems to be instinct.

"I think that we have a perception of living that's different from other people," says Scott Wootten, a Virginia Tech student who drove all night, had two hours sleep and, though opted against racing, still paddled the next day. "We minimize the risks that we take by paddling with people we trust and doing things that we know we can do. But we're not living unless we're doing something that makes us feel alive."

There is a simplicity that drives the race. The kayakers don't come for the crowd, or for a monetary prize (it is a trophy).

"There's just a lot of passion within the sport itself," Cribbs says. "It's just the nature of kayaking. The main prize is that you get to say that you won it."

"You're not gonna see it on ESPN, says a young man named Thor, a part of Leah McDowell's group.

"Because it's just a bunch of people doing what they like. You're not going nowhere out of it."

Danger and cancellations won't keep the kayakers away from the river. Tomorrow, they will again descend on the Green. And will Tommy Hilleke be here Saturday, Dec. 11, for the rescheduled race?

"Absolutely," he says.

Perhaps a person does have to be a little crazy to paddle the Narrows, or maybe just passionate. The same holds true for those who watch the race.

They will be back on Dec. 11, too, but first, they must climb back to their cars on Big Hungry Road.

Through the spray of water, it's hard to tell insanity from passion.