Geologists say these gentle hills were originally as high as the Himalayas and eroded over millennia into what are now densely wooded flat-topped mesas. My favorite go-to place begins at the west end of a modest gorge through the hills called — here goes my secret — Paint Creek Valley. Now, from six-, seven-, eight-thousand feet, you’d never notice it; I discovered it years ago flying my Cub to Chillicothe one afternoon at, oh, maybe 300 or 400 feet. It was, well, flat-out gorgeous, and I was enchanted. Every year, these heavily wooded hillsides are dressed in vivid, flaming colors. Paint Creek meanders through the valley, curving around a striking palisade near the east end. And every year, when I go back, I smile, remembering a red convertible parked off the road next to that palisade, with a guy and his girl surprised by the little yellow airplane flying overhead.