When I was a kid (in case you’re wondering, beginning a column with that phrase is a device we writers use to cover up the fact that our progression into full-fledged adulthood is debatable), every time I turned around in the fall, I saw hunters.

My uncles hunted. All my cousins and plenty of friends at school did, too.

Not me. I was too busy for that. Mornings were for sleeping, after all. And afternoons were for football or basketball or some other game we’d make up on the fly.

I was (or so I told myself) an athlete. And those guys dressed in the Day-Glo orange outfits? Well, I didn’t understand what would possess them to get up before dawn, just so they could freeze their butts off in the woods … and wear that funny-looking orange.

Over the years, as I gained more of an appreciation for the woods of Maine, that attitude changed. I did understand the allure. I did understand why people would crawl out of a cozy bed and head to a frost-covered tree-stand, where they might sit for several hours without seeing a deer.

Still, I didn’t hunt. (And still, I didn’t care much for the orange, which, as a guy who was raised on Brewer High Orange and Black, is saying something).

The reason I didn’t hunt was pretty simple. It wasn’t because I wasn’t interested. It was because I simply wasn’t qualified.

Now, there are plenty of 11-year-olds who have breezed through the 12-hour safety course the state requires of new hunters, and who get to gear up in their own orange and tromp through the woods, just like the big guys.

There are also plenty of guys like me: 30-somethings who could never figure out exactly when they’d be able to put aside 12 hours to complete the class.

That, of course, denied us membership in the blaze orange fraternity.

Not any more.

Last weekend, I found the time (The Boss doesn’t yet realize that I’m calling the class “work,” and expect to be paid for my time … but I’ll let him know sometime soon). I headed to Brewer. And along with about 100 other would-be hunters, I sat back and got ready to learn a few things.

My goals were pretty modest: Learn more about the basics of shooting well and safely. Learn a bit about outdoors ethics. Qualify to hold a hunting license in Maine. And, if possible, learn how to avoid getting myself lost and eaten by a bear.

Now, the instructors at my course never did really talk about us not becoming Purina Bear Chow. But they did their best to teach us the basics we’d need to know in the woods.

Several of my fellow students were adults in the same situation as me, but many more were youngsters whose families obviously embrace the hunting tradition.

Everywhere I looked, I saw 10- and 11- and 12-year-olds, eagerly slurping down sodas and chomping candy bars as the instructors put us through our paces.

And I saw some amazing things.

For instance, I watched as my table-mate, a teenager named James, set what may be a state hunter’s safety course record by knocking back six sodas in one daylong session on Sunday.

Largely, we sat and listened. Sometimes, we participated. And sometimes, some of us participated more than others (like the youngster – obviously a future lawyer – who had a well-reasoned, in-depth, lonnnnnng response to every ethical dilemma presented to us).

Another youngster, a girl, pointed out that all of us potential hunters had missed an obvious solution to a seemingly complex question instructors had posed to us.

What do you do if you come across a coyote, live, in a trap? Shoot him to put him out of his misery? Contact the landowner? Leave him alone? Or do something else?

“What I’d do is let him loose and take him to the vet,” she said, seeming amazed that nobody else had thought of the answer before.

Eventually, they tested us. Eventually, I passed (though I don’t know how many 12-year-olds ended up scoring better than me … and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you).

And on Monday, I headed to the town office and bought a hunting license. At first, the clerk was a bit irked at the fact that I didn’t have an old one for her to copy information off.

“Uh … this is my first one,” I proudly told her. She smiled politely, took my money, and sent me on my way.

Later that day, I dug out some catalogs. For years, my fashion sense has been pretty well-defined. Now, thanks to one 12-hour class, it’s different.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that blaze orange isn’t nearly as ugly as I thought it was. After all, as the fashion crowd would tell you, it’s functional and attractive.

Maybe I feel that way because my eyesight has deteriorated, and blaze orange no longer burns my retinas. Maybe it’s because I finally earned the right to wear it.

Or maybe it’s because there are only seven more shopping days … until hunting season.

See you out there.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.