And European earthworms live on every continent except Antarctica. Worms from South America now tunnel through the global tropics. We’ve been moving worms for centuries, in dirt used for ship ballast, in horticultural plants, in mulch. With the exception of a few native species that live in rotting logs and around wetlands, there are not supposed to be any earthworms east of the Great Plains and north of the Mason-Dixon Line.īut there are, thanks to humans. And worms-with their limited powers of dispersal-weren’t able to recolonize on their own.įor someone like me, who grew up in the Midwest seeing earthworms stranded on the sidewalk after every rain, this was a shocking revelation. Scientists think it killed off the earthworms that may have inhabited the area before the last glaciation. Its belly rose over what is now Hudson Bay, and its toes dangled down into Iowa and Ohio. Until about 10,000 years ago, a vast ice sheet covered the northern third of the North American continent. But the problem with these worms isn’t their mode of locomotion. There is something unnerving about their slithering, serpentine style instead of inching along like garden worms, they snap their bodies like angry rattlesnakes. “Holy smokes!” she says, as a dozen worms come squirming out of the soil-their brown, wet skin burning with irritation. Seconds after Dobson empties the contents inside the frame, the soil wriggles to life. It holds a pale yellow slurry of mustard powder and water that’s completely benign-unless you’re a worm. She kicks away the dead oak leaves and tosses a square frame made of PVC pipe onto the damp earth. As I quickly learn, neither trash nor oppressive humidity nor ecological catastrophe can dampen her ample enthusiasm.Īt the bottom of the hill, Dobson veers off the trail and stops in a shady clearing. But Dobson, bounding ahead in khaki hiking pants with her blond ponytail swinging, appears unfazed. Broken glass, food wrappers, and condoms litter the ground.
It’s a splotch of unruly forest, surrounded by the clamoring streets and cramped rowhouses of the Bronx.
O n a sweltering July day, I follow Annise Dobson down an overgrown path into the heart of Seton Falls Park.
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