I guess I really got serious about deer hunting back around 1964. Thereabouts. I'd quit booming around the world and got back to the old home territory just outside of Austin, Texas. The old family place of a little over 200 acres.
Way too many deer on it for the carrying capacity of the land; a far cry from the darned-near-none of the WW II era. So, I did my own culling program. I'd get off work and take the jeep and a rifle and drive out somewhere in the pasture and park where I knew the deer would exit the woods. Over some three or four years I shot a bunch of does, mature spike bucks and scraggle-horned bucks. I got pretty doggoned good at cooking Bambi.
I never really thought of it as "hunting", although I'd call it that in casual conversation. To me, "real hunting" was going after a particular nice buck, although sitting in a tree stand was not particularly different than playing Sneaky Snake. Or, what I call "walking hunting", easing along in the more open areas to see who's not paying close-enough attention. It helps if you learn how to use the wind and how to walk quietly and smoothly without making jerky motions or marching like you think you're some sort of soldier. All that's a lot easier if you start out when you're just big enough to tote a .22 rifle, of course.
Lease hunting on Texas ranches is the most common system, given that there is relatively little public land here. Texas joined the Union as a sovereign entity in its own right, and owned all the state lands not yet occupied by the individual citizens. Well, seems fair to me for a rancher to charge money to let me trespass in his yard--yeah, big yard.
Technology? There's "need" and then there is "want". I figure I "need" my rifle and my knife. "Want" is all that other stuff that folks worry about. I'll water up before I leave camp, and eat and drink when I get back. Okay, some toilet paper to mark where Bambi's waiting for me to come back with the jeep and haul him the two or five miles to camp, depending on how the day went. (Best to shoot 'em near the jeep trail, I've found.)
So I dunno. If Bambi didn't stick his stupid head up at the wrong time, I probably wouldn't break his fool neck for him.
If I'm gonna sit, what's the difference between sitting on the ground all leaned up against a rock or tree, and sitting in a tree stand? Or sitting in the jeep? Sittin's sittin'. I can drift off to snoozeland most any old where--and it's amazing how many times I came awake and saw Ol' Bucky wandering along.
Sneaky-snaking and walking-hunting was a lot of fun for a lot of years, but my ancient back is putting "paid" to that sort of fun, not to mention other funsies. Guess what? That problem's gonna come up for everybody who has ever hunted in any way, shape or fashion. Everybody reading this is gonna get there, some day.