You can see how it could happen.

A Massachusetts birdwatcher seen near a swamp in an urban neighborhood with binoculars is taken for a "peeping Tom."

The 47-year-old man says he was roughed up by police, who didn't believe he was birding in wintertime. Police say Paul Peterson refused to answer questions and assaulted an officer.

A court hearing will be held later this month to sort out the truth.

I don't know if this is a case of an arrogant birder or an over-reacting policeman. But it made me wonder what local birders have encountered through the years as they slip through the landscape at all times of the year, day and night, lugging spotting scopes, binoculars and tape recorders.

Have their intentions on occasion been misunderstood? You bet.

It's the late 1970s and Franklin Haas of Churchtown and two other birders approach Philadelphia International Airport at midnight.

They are participating in a "Big Day," an ornithological event in which individuals or groups try to find as many bird species as they can within 24 hours.

The men are at the airport, near an urban national wildlife refuge, to look for rails, short-eared owls and several other likely species.

A recent high-profile hijacking has nations on edge.

Suddenly, a police car appears and pulls over the birders. The officer peers into the car and spots multiple binoculars, spotting scopes and cameras. He calls for backup.

"They were being very, very cautious and told us not to make any sudden movements and to get out of the car," recalls Haas, a well-known birder and author of the "Pennsylvania Birds" field guide.

One of the cops asks Haas if that is a night vision scope in the back seat.

"I wish," Haas replies.

The men explain their mission, eventually are deemed harmless and the police drive away.

Another time, on a "Christmas Bird Count" in New Jersey, Haas and some others walk through a ravine and scope a birdfeeder in the backyard of a home.

The homeowners call police, saying someone is spying on them. The birders show investigating police their binoculars and explain their pastime and are let go.

The third time that Haas has stopped by police in nearly 50 years of birding is in downtown Philadelphia. Driving around, looking for access points to view the Delaware River for gulls and waterfowl, a police car pulls them over.

Once the birders tell him of their quest, the officer says, "Follow me." He drives them to a locked gate, openes it and tells them to drive to the river and to take their time.

Patricia Witmer, husband Jan and their son, J. Eric, birders from Ephrata, are in Yosemite National Park about 25 years ago in search of a rare great gray owl that had been sighted there.

You look for owls at night and the Witmers, driving a rental car with a Colorado license plate, park at a gas station to walk to a nearby meadow.

"Needless to say, we didn't see the owl but when we came back to our car the police were there. The gas station had been robbed around midnight," Witmer remembers.

"We had to spread 'em on the hood. They patted us down."

A policeman asks what they are doing there and when the trio explains they are looking for a night owl, he snorts, "That's a likely story!"

But then another policeman who lives near a park ranger and is aware of the owl sighting, verifies the story.

J. Eric, now a well-known local birder himself, has his own anecdote. He is participating in a "Christmas Bird Count" in Solanco about 10 years ago near Peach Bottom.

About eight birders are in the middle of nowhere in the dead of a December night, playing a recording of saw-whet owl.

Out of the darkness a chainsaw starts up. It only sounds to be about 150 feet away but there is no light. Just a chainsaw being throttled up and down.

"To this day, I don't know what was going on there," Witmer says. "It was like something out of a horror movie. We just left."

About three years ago, Rosemary Spreha was with a group from the Lancaster County Bird Club on a birding outing to Chincoteague, Va.

They are in a woods playing recordings of a great horned owl at night. A car drives by slowly and Spreha sees the driver fishing out his cell phone.

She knows what's coming.

Sure enough, a policeman drives up several minutes later and demands of the group, "Are you kids having a little party?"

Once he sees the group ranges in age from 40 to 80, he sees the humor in the situation and chats with the birders for 20 minutes before moving on.

acrable@lnpnews.com