“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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