The indicator flashes left. You click off the asphalt, roll over the gravel, and suddenly, there is… nothing.

No tarmac, no power lines, no fences, no signs. Just rolling dirt, two thumping engines, a herd of unbothered camels watching you pass, and an endless blue horizon stretching all the way to the Gobi Desert.

That’s how Mariella and her partner Philipp began their two-week motorcycle expedition across Mongolia. What started as a dream of galloping wild horses, endless sand dunes, and pure off-road freedom quickly collided with the reality of remote travel: fuel shortages, mysterious fuse blowouts fixed with scrap wire, falling ceiling beetles, and the ultimate test of mindset and confidence.

When things don’t go to plan out in the wild, the real journey begins. We sat down with Mariella to talk about desert dust, learning to trust your gut when the trails get deep, and why turning left off the paved road changes everything.

If you had to open this story with a single scene from Mongolia, what is it and why?

Mariella: The indicator flashes left. We turn off the tarmac onto gravel, and then onto nothing but bare earth. Suddenly, there’s no road at all. Ahead of us, the desert stretches as far as the eye can see. No houses. No power lines. Not a single sign. Just us, the rumble of our motorbikes, the endless open space, and a herd of camels watching us pass.

We rode straight towards that vast blue sky with absolutely no idea what the landscape might look like just a few metres further on.

That moment captures what Mongolia felt like to us: that incredible sense of freedom, the excitement of the unknown, and the realization that, out here, you never quite know what’s waiting around the corner. If there even is a corner.

What did Mongolia feel like on day one—the sights, sounds, and smells?

Mariella: Our first taste came at 4:30 in the morning, sitting in a taxi on our way from the airport to the hotel. I remember staring out the window trying to take it all in: rolling green hills, our first glimpses of traditional gers, and Mongolian music playing on the radio. As we approached Ulaanbaatar, the landscape shifted dramatically into skyscrapers and giant statues of Genghis Khan.

But if you ask me what Mongolia smells like, my mind immediately goes to the moment we left the city behind on the bikes and headed into the wilderness. There was this intense, wild scent in the air—spicy, floral, slightly earthy. I’d never smelled anything like it, and it matched the landscape perfectly.

What was the dream version of this trip during the planning stages?

Mariella: I had this wonderfully romantic picture in my head: riding across endless open plains, wild horses galloping alongside me, and a magnificent eagle soaring above. Pure wide-open space.

My partner Philipp had a slightly different vision: he wanted two weeks of pure riding where, unlike in Europe, you don’t have to hunt for legal off-road tracks. In Mongolia, it’s the other way around—if you’re lucky, you might stumble across a paved road now and then! Riding sand dunes had been his dream for years, and in the Gobi, he finally got to do it.

And the planned route?

Mariella: A two-week loop starting and finishing in Ulaanbaatar. We planned to head south into the Gobi Desert, loop west, and head back north through completely different terrain: past dramatic rock formations, white cliffs, deep gorges, massive dunes, ancient monasteries, the volcanic landscapes of the Orkhon Valley, natural hot springs, and alpine lakes.

When did fuel stop being a minor logistical detail and become a real problem?

Mariella: We hadn't heard a single rumor about a fuel shortage before arriving. But on that first dawn taxi ride, Philipp noticed long queues at every petrol station. When we picked up our rental bikes, the shop confirmed it: they handed us two extra canisters and advised us to buy a siphon hose so we could ask for fuel from passing vehicles in an emergency. They also warned us that stations weren't allowing people to fill canisters.

We tried to stay optimistic—surely, it couldn't be that bad?

That optimism evaporated as we rode out of Ulaanbaatar past station queues stretching for kilometers. When the first three stations we reached were completely dry, the reality hit us hard.

Describe the moment it became clear you couldn’t keep going on two wheels.

Mariella: It happened at the far end of our Gobi loop, at a ger camp near the Khongoryn Els dunes. Our spare canisters were empty, the bike tanks were running low, and our host spent hours calling ahead to villages on our route only to confirm there was no petrol anywhere ahead.

We remembered meeting an Australian and a Belgian back in Dalanzadgad who were traveling by car and were totally relaxed: "We’ve got a diesel. No problem at all, we just skip the lines."

We called our rental agency to see if swapping to a diesel 4x4 was an option, because continuing on bikes was impossible without stranding ourselves in the desert. We had to turn back.

Turning around felt like giving up before we'd experienced everything we’d dreamed of. I felt frustrated, disappointed, and like we had failed. One thought kept echoing in my head: Challenge not accomplished. It sounds silly now—it was the only sensible call—but in that moment, it felt like Mongolia had thrown down a gauntlet and we were walking away.

What was it like shifting from handlebars to four wheels? What did you lose—and gain?

Mariella: Honestly, we were just relieved to keep moving—we probably would have jumped on horses or yaks if that was the only option!

A car comes with obvious luxuries: you can throw your gear in the back without Tetris-packing, and you can buy all the groceries you want. But we missed that raw sense of freedom instantly. On a motorcycle, you aren't just driving through a landscape; you are completely immersed in it. You feel the temperature drops, smell the earth, and experience the scale of the world intensely.

And the funny part? You’d think a car would be more comfortable, but on Mongolian "roads," we were getting slammed from side to side and bouncing off the ceiling. Riding the bikes had actually been far more comfortable!

Did being on bikes versus in a vehicle change how locals treated you?

Mariella: Immensely. On motorbikes, you aren't just tourists looking through glass—you feel like fellow travelers. Approaching drivers would flash their lights and wave, and spontaneous conversations happened at every stop.

My favorite memories are the local kids and teenagers running up, grinning ear to ear, asking to sit on the bikes or take them for a spin. It created instant connections even without a shared language. In the car, that magic vanished. We became observers looking in from the outside. On two wheels, everything is closer and far more personal.

What was the funniest "this is completely absurd" moment?

Mariella: When we picked up our brand-new Beta motorcycles in Ulaanbaatar, the rental company casually mentioned that one bike had an electrical glitch that blew fuses. Their fix? They handed us a sandwich bag of spare fuses and wished us luck. Two bikes, a bag of fuses, and the Gobi Desert. (Naturally, we left that bag behind at a hotel and ended up fixing the wiring on the trail with a scrap piece of wire given to us by a local Mongolian gentleman.)

Then there were the nights in the gers. Lovely and peaceful until dark, when hundreds of black desert beetles emerged from the floor, climbed the walls, and spent the night dropping from the ceiling onto our blankets with a steady clack... clack... clack. By morning, every single one had vanished without a trace.

And of course, running out of drinking water near the dunes, asking our host for a top-up using a translation app, and having him walk out of the kitchen with a smiling nod and a rusty open bucket of water. We laughed… until our stomachs started making suspicious noises a few hours later.

What did this ride teach you about your own limits?

Mariella: Trust your gut, and know when to take a breather. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

I didn't have much off-road experience before this expedition, so Mongolia shoved me well outside my comfort zone. Deep sand that had the bike squirming wildly beneath me, steep rocky climbs, deep river crossings—every time I hit a rough section, that voice would creep in: Can I really do this? Am I strong enough?

Your toughest opponent out there is almost never the weather or the terrain; it's your own mind telling you to give up. Every tricky river or sand track I cleared built a little more confidence and quieted that voice. Sometimes you just have to give it a go. Take a breath, drop your shoulders, and try.

Which piece of kit worked the hardest for you day in, day out?

Mariella: Without a doubt, our Hurricane 7 Backpacks with the HydraPak bladders. We wore them every single day. Out in the desert sun, staying hydrated is a safety issue. Having the bite valve right under the helmet so we could drink on the move without stopping was a complete game-changer.

Where did your luggage setup save the day?

Mariella: As a photographer, I need my camera immediately accessible—especially in Mongolia where the landscape changes every ten minutes. Our Sandstorm Tank Bags carried my camera and drone right between my arms. Dust in the Gobi gets into literally everything, but the bags sealed it all out completely. When we were plowing through river crossings, knowing thousands of euros of camera gear was bone-dry gave me total peace of mind.

And the best part: we packed our soft luggage into our flight duffels in Europe, flew to Ulaanbaatar, strapped them directly onto rental bikes, and hit the dirt. Sturdy enough for desert abuse, but light and flexible enough to fly anywhere in the world.

What did Mongolia leave you with that you didn’t expect?

Mariella: Confidence. A lot more than I ever anticipated.

After we swapped to the 4x4, a local man asked us: "Weren't you terrified traveling through Mongolia all alone on motorbikes?" The question caught me completely off guard because the thought had never crossed my mind. I was anxious about my riding technique, but never about the country or its people.

Mongolia gave me a grounded strength I didn't know I was looking for.

(Philipp's answer, however, is much simpler: camel dumplings.)

If you could leave other riders with one takeaway, what would it be?

Mariella: It all started with a left turn off the tarmac—and I’d take that turn again in a heartbeat.

Follow Mariella and Philipp’s adventures on: @framethe.world