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With the city of Hovd we reach the desert. Red rocks, sand, a few lonely camels. Corrugated roads, rattling teeth and bones. But there is waiting again an exciting route through Tsambagarav National Park. At 3000 meters we hope to find what we have missed in Mongolia so far: intact nomadic life. The ten contour lines on the Russian map almost touch each other- and the Russians can be trusted. Well, at least their maps. The cartographer however has made a sloppy work since there is clearly not marked enough water. On a barely visible trail we cross every damn river coming down from the glacier. Steep up, steep down. No wonder the track is hardly used anymore. Here, only light Russian jeeps are able to pass, no new heavy Toyotas. And we, the luggage in the backpack. But it is worth it: Finally, we find our Mongolia again. Yurts in the high valleys, evening visitors by the tent, tea invitations and funny conversations with a lot of mime. And finally, a thousand meters downhill on a smooth dirtroad to Olgii - back to the desert. When we arrive in Ölgii, we still feel it in the bones. No, not the weather, although this is also changing to storm. But the three days Tsambagarav. Tsambagarav - sounds now like a whispered cursing on our lips. And yet: Tsambagarav is also the magical "sesame open up" to one of the most beautiful regions of Mongolia.

After a few restdays we tackle another national park. We want to cross the Kharkhira pass, straight between the raised shoulders of the 4000-meter-high mountain range. Through the dramatic Hovd river valley, along the mosquito-contaminated Archit lake and via a first "small" pass we reach a huge sandpit. Was this planned? No. Has the Russian cartographer scamped again? Yes. We are pushing, black thunderclouds are piling up over us, and in us there are first doubts. Turning back? This has never been easy for us. Better going forward than returning to the sandpit of Archit Nuur. And so we push on. Soon after, a few local motorcyclists pass us. We take this as a good sign. The sand remains behind, the ground becomes firmer, the first yurts stick in the slopes. Push, breathe, climb. At the same time, our American friend Jerry posts on Instagram: "When in doubt, go higher." It is evening, the wind blows us over the mountain ridge and suddenly they are there: The glaciated peaks of Mount Türgen.

Awe-inspiring weather awakes us the next morning. We pack up quickly and head euphorically towards the mountains. The track goes sixteen awesome kilometers. Then we reach a parking sign in a marsh, which seems completely out of place. It does not exist on the Russian map, but everything else is clear: ten kilometers and three hundred altitude meters to the pass. The next few hours are like slushing our bike through Sarek National Park in Sweden, or over the pathless Greina moor in the Swiss Alps. The comparision lags only because of the camel herd, which, together with two nomad boys, passes us. At four o'clock we reach the 2900 meter high pass. We hear the silence as a sough in the ears, the mountains around us are wild and mighty, the glaciers close to grasp. How can we describe such a moment? How can it be understood that such an effort is worthwhile? In our memory, a quote from Kyle Dempster's film "The road from Karakol" flickers. He would understand us.

"Real adventure is not polished. It’s not the result of some marketing budget. There's no hashtag for it. It burns brightest on the map's edges, but it exists in all of us. It exists on the intersection of imagination and the ridiculous. You have to have faith, it will find you there."

Yes, the adventure has been waiting for us here, far out in the north-west of Mongolia. And in the next 48 hours it hits us, like a severe solar storm the polar sky in winter.

The pantomimic "head up head down" gestures of the Mongols, which we meet after the pass are unmistakable. And we know the Mongol word "Oz" - water. The heart slips in our pants. On our way to Ulangom, we would have to cross the swollen river four times. Yes, there has been a lot of rain in the last days. "Tsambagarav" we curse. Do we really have to go back now?

With a lot of gestures it turns out that there is another way out of the valley. Another pathless pass, a detour of seventy kilometers, but only a single river crossing at the very beginning, before all the tributaries join the main river down in the valley. We reject the invitation to spend the night and move on. Of course, we know that glacier rivers should be crossed early in the morning, but we also know that there will be a lot of rainfall next night. So, time for some evening entertainment. We find a suitable place to cross and as the clouds push over the pass in the fiery sunset, the first lightning flashes over Kharkhira Uul, we sit safely in the tent, on the right side of the river, eating our last pasta. Slowly we run out of food.

Hungry and exhausted we reach Ulangom the following afternoon. Our visa expires in 24 hours and we are still 300 kilometers away from the border. We need a taxi. The young driver, whom we eventually find after wandering around for three hours is not ideal. Unfortunately he is the only one who wants to drive us, hardly grown up, but in posession of a powerful 4x4 pickup. Full speed, we race out of the city and surf over the first gravel pass. And then comes a yurt. "Cha, cha", (tea) means our chauffeur. We are not enthusiastic, but the Mongols are social people. And after all the Ger belongs to his sister. The tea is good. The wodka as well. We should have known better. We confiscate the filled pet bottle immediately, but the next hours are not funny. After a few Dakhar Rally stages, seasoned with Mongolian songs in Pavarroti volume, Altynger resolutely demands his wodka. Angry Mongols are like young stallions, strong and not up to cuddling. Altynger stops and wants to fight with us. Luckily there is no room for that in the car and he gets out.

We have always believed stealing a car is difficult, but actually it is quite simple and it does not need much criminal energy. An expiring visa and a tipsy Mongolian are enough. We quickly press the central locking system and close the windows. Brigitte climbs behind the steering and off it goes. A perplexed Altynger disappears behind us. We know - what we are doing is theft. And as soon as we get to the next car, we stop. Together with four strong Mongols - one of them speaks English - we are able to cool down the panting Altynger. From now on we are friends (apart from a poured beer in the next village and a price discussion at two o'clock in the morning). This night, the shadow of the earth pulls over the moon, like a late omen. And with the dawn we reach Tsaganuur.

Of course we slowly have enough. A calorie-rich meal, a shower, some sleep... but of course there is stormy headwind on the last 35 kilometers to the border. Of course, the Russian border officials search our entire luggage and actually find some expired Tramal tablets. Four years ago recommended by a Swiss travel doctor as emergency painkillers and packed into our first aid kit. Prescription? Nope. Problem? Yes. Tramal has the same effect as opium. The Russians are relaxed - and we too. We both know that the mistake lies with the doctor. The next four hours that we spend with filling out forms seem to us as an appropriate end of the past days. Outside, another thunderstorm explodes, like a parody to our adventure storm, which now slowly settles, comes to a rest and then disappears in the vast Mongolian borderland.