omething amazing started in the late 1970s and continues to this day. Whales, the largest mammals on earth and killers in self-defense of many men, began to show a willingness, indeed an eagerness, to be friends with humankind to a degree never before recorded. From gently nudging boats to begging to be petted, the behavioral turnaround among these behemoth creatures has captivated the imaginations and affections of thousands of whalewatchers.

Eye of the Whale offers a persuasive and very readable study of the current state of whale-human affairs. Those who are sympathetic (like me) to the whales’ cause will find equal grounds in the book for alarm and hope. From Baja California, the birthing and nursing waters of the Eastern Pacific gray whale, to Siberia, where the Western Pacific population is on the verge of oblivion, environmental writer and activist (he was instrumental in saving the Atlantic striped bass) Dick Russell follows the migration pattern of the gentle giant. He seems to examine almost everyone and everything along the way that might have an effect on the creatures’ progress from geography and economics to the human heart itself.

Giving thrust to the story is the ongoing environmental fight against Mitsubishi, one of the largest corporations in the world, which sought to commercialize the Baja beaches resulting in the inevitable destruction of gray whale habitat. Another constant presence is that of Charles Melville Scammon, a 19th century whaler and sea captain whose written descriptions and drawings of whales and other sea creatures, landscapes and natural phenomena are included in the book and reveal a 21st century sensitivity.

“That intense, that immense and impeccable, eye” of the whale seems to cast a mythic spell over all those, even enemies, who have gazed into it up close. The number of the spellbound is increasing. Bruce Mate, an Illinois marine biologist interviewed by Russell, sees whales as avatars of a whole new world not all that far in the future. “I think, probably, in our children’s generation, we’re going to see remarkable changes in our relationships with certain forms of wildlife,” he says.

If so, Eye of the Whale will have played, in its enthralling way, a small but important role in the transformation.

Maude McDaniel writes from Cumberland, Maryland.

dward Abbey, the staunch defender of the natural world, can quit turning over in his grave now. His torch has been retrieved and lifted high by Kathleen Meyer, an environmental writer with as much wit and stylistic color as the man himself. Meyer’s Barefoot-Hearted is, in part, the story of her romance with Patrick McCarron, an old-fashioned blacksmith of Irish descent with whom she shares a rodent-infested, fly-ridden barn in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. Meyer proves once again that the material for great writing is almost always close at hand. You might think of flies, mice and bats as vermin, but through close observations of these intruders and much scientific and anecdotal research, Meyer turns her life with these critters into a complex treatise on man’s often unconscious inhumanity to wildlife. “Who is the real intruder here?” Meyer frequently asks. She is one of those rare writers who can pile on the zoological detail and make it as compelling as an Agatha Christie chiller. The book’s centerpiece is a chapter on bear cubs orphaned by hunters and high-speed drivers, and the animal advocates who undertake heroic measures to save them from animal control gas chambers. It’s a fascinating and sympathetic portrait of the American Black Bear, a creature, it seems, much more sinned against (by encroaching development, hunting and reckless huckleberry harvesting) than sinner. When she’s not regaling her readers with the sex life of the skunks who live under her barn, Meyer entertains with scenes from her relationship with McCarron, whose immunity to suburban conditioning makes her own environmentalism pale to light green by comparison. We’re talking here about a man who refuses to use pesticides, indoor plumbing or gasoline-powered vehicles. At one point in their adventure together, Meyer points to a pesky fly on her beloved’s shoulder. Patrick looks at the fly, looks back at Kathleen and says, “Pretend it’s a parrot.” The only reservation I have in recommending this memoir is that you may become so addicted to Meyer’s prose, you’ll want to read all her other books immediately. Unfortunately, there’s only one: the international bestseller How to Shit in the Woods. Kathleen, don’t make us wait 10 years for the next one! Lynn Hamilton writes from Tybee Island, Georgia.