Dust. Applejack felt she was qualified to write books on dust now. And you could write them--you could write tomes on the qualities of dust and ash, scorched earth and mud.
Where would she begin? Ah. A perfect place: It never goes away. You never get rid of it. Try to wash it away and you'll make more mud.
It comes with the howling wind, riding it like Spike used to ride on Twilight's back, perched as he was--and it stings your eyes, fills your ears, violates your mane, fills your mouth. It sticks to your teeth and it fouls your tongue. It clogs your nose and leaves you miserable and teary eyed.
Applejack was tired of it.
Applejack was tired. Period.
Perhaps it might have been easier, had everything been featureless. The advantage of a flat, featureless plain was that one could conveniently ignore it One could, if one so chose, pretend that it was false. A dream. Not a nightmare, because that was dramatic and dramatic things took energy and she had none. None at all.
A flat plain of nothing would have been easier to traverse, as well. The hills were still there, and they still took time and effort, and with the air the way it was, she had less and less of both.
The hills north of old Ponyville had been forested, once. They were still, in a purely technical sense. There were things like trees sitting on some of the crowns of the old rolling hills. They were jagged, pointy sorts of things, but she still felt that they counted as trees.
Near a dry creek bed, Applejack stopped to take a sip from her canteen and rest her legs.
The map came out, as it always did whenever she left home. Maps were another thing that Applejack felt she could write sermons on. She'd always loved them, how they kept everything fixed and coherent. Nowadays she horded them because they were vital. Maps were a kind of gold. They told you everywhere that ponies could run to. They told you where water might be, where food might be, where these things would most definitely not be. Word of mouth was only so good. Ponies forgot. Ponies remembered halfway and that little bit they left out might be an accident... or might not be an accident. She'd been lied to more times than she cared to count. She'd been led astray innocently even more times. But maps? Maps didn't lie. They were just wrong. The lack of intentionality was comforting.
She'd made good progress. Not amazing progress, no, but decent. As good as could be expected. Mac's chickenscratch was here and there, and she followed his notes. Left supplies at the crossroad near Golden Dawn village. Ponies on the river ain't friendly. Do not try to talk or trade. Provincial hospital mostly empty at Meadow Green but it's sturdy. Local doctor says that he's still open for business. Willing to trade in kind (?)
There were trails marked out too, though these she trusted less than his notes. Mac hadn't touched this map nor walked these paths in a year or three, at least.
A few more hours. She could manage a few more hours.