With the hunter`s gun cocked, aimed and with his itchy finger on the trigger, the bear grabbed its last chance at survival. It reared up, launched itself in the direction of the meddling human who wanted to end its life - and collapsed in a heap as a bullet struck it on the skull, killing it instantly.
The bear`s killer explained that he always waited for that final attack before terminating the life of such a magnificent beast. He suggested that the bear was never more alive in its long life than in that final moment when either death or glory was the assured and certain outcome.
I`ve been watching Rangers since the sixties, and in all that time, one moment stands out above the rest. It was a moment in time which felt like no other. It was a moment in time where failure would have been lower than anything ever experienced, but success would be ecstasy beyond belief.
Joy and despair are never strangers to football fans, and while the former has been a welcome and not unusual part of the lives of Rangers supporters, the latter, fortunately, has mostly been a stranger.
Victory is rarely sweeter than when a rival is soundly beaten, and although I`ve been witness to Rangers crushing Celtic more times than I can remember, none of these days of ecstasy matched the moment in time when I experienced a physical sensation like never before.
Those moments in the 2003 season when the title destination was finally confirmed thanks to a magnificent home victory were magical, but they were as much about relief as they were about joy.
Helicopter Sunday was fantastic, and all the more enjoyable for those gatecrashing decisive moments which ruined the script and crushed those who had already written what would turn out to be an irrelevant final chapter. Days don`t get much better than this, but for me, an even greater moment was in store.
Rangers have won a European trophy in my lifetime, and yet that moment of triumph in Barcelona always seemed to be overshadowed by Lisbon, when Celtic grasped the biggest football pot of all.
I remember the European Cup-Winners Cup final in 1967 when Rangers were defeated in extra-time by a West German team in West Germany, and I remember the feeling when I knew we had made it to the final, but it fell short of matching the experience of that day in my life when time stood still.
None of these periods in our history were as blissful as the day a handful of Rangers players - not a legend amongst them - stepped forward to take responsibility for delivering Rangers into a European final for the first time in thirty-six years.
Absence, you see, had made the heart grow fonder.
Rangers` journey to Florence, and even the experience of the game there, had been unspectacular and difficult, but throughout it all, somehow, Rangers did just enough to survive and remain in contention for a European pot; a prize that had long since been written off by chattering-class football insiders - and fans too.
When the final whistle blew after 120 minutes of football on that Italian evening, I knew and could barely believe that Rangers were just a shoot-out from reaching a place which common wisdom had decreed was now beyond the dreams of Scotland`s greatest club.
An animalistic desire to advance to a European final took root in me, and the prospect of failure, having come this far, was too horrific to contemplate. It was no longer about wanting to win, it was about needing to win.
My blood ran cold at the thought of not reaching a European final. This was the killing zone like it had never been before. I`d have blessed myself if I thought it would have made a difference, but unlike our Catholic cousins, Protestants, agnostics and atheists have no rituals to while away the final moments before the final solution unfolds.
I experienced a tension greater than those many tensions which are part of the lot of the committed football fan. When Barry Ferguson`s effort was saved by the Florence keeper, it was almost a dagger to the heart, but despite the gloom, hope persisted, as it must.
An Italian penalty was saved by Alexander in the Rangers goal, and another was sucked over the bar by a collective intake of breath of the large Rangers support. Three kicks had been converted by men in blue jerseys; Whittaker, Papac and Hemdani, and now the final act, just maybe, was about to take place.
Despite the tension which afflicted every Rangers supporter watching, spirits rose when Nacho Novo walked forward to take what we all prayed would be the last action of the night.
People say they knew Nacho would score, but of course they knew nothing of the sort. I sat in the house, wife and family beside me; all watching and waiting and hoping - and it felt like nothing I`d ever experienced before.
Weirdly, I remembered that stricken bear as Nacho approached the ball to take his kick, and if football could ever throw up the tension of a life or death moment, this certainly felt like it.
It was about one shot at glory now, to achieve immortality or perhaps to die trying. The fate of Rangers rested on just one strike of the ball. If it bulged the net, seventh, eighth and ninth heavens awaited, but not to seize this golden moment had portents of dread ready and waiting.
When Novo sprang at the ball, I allowed myself a second`s optimism, but my optimism had been dashed before and so I waited in hope for the liberation that victory would deliver, or the sentence of depression that defeat would surely bring.
When the curtain in the Florence goal rippled, and with Novo in mid-celebration and already en route to the assembly of Rangers fans present in the ground, I found myself in a family huddle of overwhelming celebration and joy.
It was relief, it was joy, it was bliss and it was more than any other moment I`ve ever known watching Rangers. Truly, it felt like being spared - of surviving a moment when the cliff-edge could have crumbled, and then being told that the lottery had been won.
It matters of course that the UEFA Cup ultimately did not find its way to Ibrox, but I sometimes wonder if the events of that semi-final night would have been eclipsed even if it had.
I have friends who have no interest in football, and they wonder about my passion for the sport and for Rangers. They have more intellectual pursuits to enjoy but when I tell them of nights like this, I see an envy in their eyes.
They will never know what we know.
Enjoy supporting Rangers.
It will take you on a unique journey - and it lasts a lifetime.