One time I went camping with some friends down in Middle-of-Literally-Nowhere, Oregon. There are these beautiful hills there, comprised of rich warm hues of all sorts. Yellows, reds, and oranges drape themselves over the hills in layered blankets that lay fragile and dry from exposure.
This goes on for miles, but a lot of it is concentrated within the aptly named Painted Hills State Park. It's truly a gorgeous place, and notably fragile. Elevated boardwalks tiptoe through well-preserved halls of red, rich in geologic intrigue, as to discourage visitors from scarring such a natural wonder.
I'm glad I was with friends, or I'd have lingered on and missed some magnificent features. I said at the time, and I stand by it now, "I'd take this over a museum full of paintings any day."
There is no finer artist than Nature.