Undiscovered Archaeological Sites

Through the centuries, historical sites are bound to disappear. Whether due to climate change, political turmoil, or even grave robbers, there are many reasons why discoveries at notable locations are sparse, but there are still typically traces of the people and customs. Occasionally, though, it's as if they never existed to begin with...
One might believe that, in regard to important historical figures and locations, there would be some form of record, whether written or oral, that would allude to a location. However, that's not always the case...From the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to Cleopatra's tomb, here are 9 important archaeological sites that may never be found:
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon:
Considered one of the "Seven Wonders of the Ancient World," the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are the only Wonder that has remained elusive to archaeologists.Most historians believe that in the sixth century BCE, King Nebuchadnezzar II had the Gardens constructed as a gift for his wife, Amytis, who was homesick for her native Media (modern-day Iran). In that day and age, it would have taken a feat of engineering to ensure the gardens were properly irrigated, leading scientists to theorize that a system akin to Roman aqueducts would have delivered water from the nearby Euphrates River to the Gardens.While there are many descriptions of the Gardens in Greek and Roman texts, these were second-hand accounts that had been passed down throughout the centuries, as there is no mention of them in any preserved Babylonian texts. Due to the lack of archaeological evidence, some scientists assume the Gardens never truly existed. However, Oxford's Dr. Stephanie Dalley, an Assyriologist, discredited those assumptions: "That's a pretty stupid copout, really. It doesn't make sense to say we couldn't find it, so it didn't exist."
Dalley claims the lack of archaeological evidence is due, rather, to the fact that the Gardens weren't located in Babylon at all, but rather in Nineveh, the capital city of Assyria (modern-day Iraq and Turkey). She believes Assyrian king Sennacherib, not Nebuchadnezzar II, built the Gardens in the seventh century BCE, an entire century earlier than hypothesized in Babylon.
Genghis Khan's tomb:
Before Genghis Khan died in August 1227 CE, he requested that his grave not be marked in any way. However, this hasn't stopped a variety of individuals, from archaeologists to grave robbers, from attempting to find the ruler's final resting place, despite the fact that Marco Polo recounted that even by the late 13th century, the mystery eluded even the Mongols themselves.Most fieldwork that has taken place to find Khan's tomb has centered around Burkhan Khaldun in northeastern Mongolia, near his birthplace. The location was even mentioned in The Secret History of the Mongols, the oldest surviving work about Khan's final days. According to the text, he declared it to be the most sacred mountain in Mongolia and said, "Bury me here when I pass away." (Historians still don't know what officially caused his demise, but one popular theory is that it was due to injuries sustained from falling off a horse in 1226). Despite this statement, archaeological searches in the area have been fruitless.
The details of Khan's burial have long been shrouded in mystery. In an oft-recounted tale, Marco Polo claimed that after 2,000 slaves finished burying Khan, they were killed by soldiers, who were in turn killed by another group of soldiers, who later killed themselves in an effort to finally secure the privacy of their revered ruler's burial site. However, this legend is not mentioned in contemporary stories.
The Lost Colony of Roanoke:
One of the biggest mysteries of pre-colonial America is the fate of the Lost Colony of Roanoke. While we do know that the colony was located on present-day Roanoke Island off the coast of North Carolina, archaeologists are still unable to pinpoint the settlement's exact location and where/if the colonists resettled elsewhere. In the words of Adrian Masters, a University of Texas historian, "It's the 'Area 51' of colonial history."The story of the Lost Colony began in 1584 when Sir Walter Raleigh sought permission from Queen Elizabeth I to establish a permanent North American settlement. She approved his request and granted permission for the establishment of "Virginia." Shortly after, over 100 British men, women, and children boarded the ship Lyon, and ten weeks later, landed on the coast of North Carolina.Roanoke Island was only meant to be a stopping point in the settlers' journey, as records show they intended to move 50 miles into the mainland, eventually making their home in Salmon Creek. But winter derailed their plans, forcing them to settle in Roanoke for longer than intended. The changing seasons, as well as a tenuous relationship with the local Algonquian tribe, the colony's governor John White to return to England to gather supplies. On August 25, 1587, the settlers asked, "...we all of one mind, and consent, have most earnestly entreated, and incessantly requested John White, Governor of the planters in Virginia, to pass into England, for the better and more assured help..." White was reluctant, but realized supplies would be beneficial, so on August 27, he set off for his home country.
His return trip was particularly ill-timed as it took place in the midst of the war between Spain and England. The threat of the fearsome Spanish Armada caused Elizabeth I to prohibit British ships from leaving the port, lest they be needed to face off against the Spaniards. In April 1588, despite the prohibition, White was able to arrange a relief mission. However, a battle with the French forced the ships to return to England.

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It's a big ask to expect the finder of a pristine ancient treasure to turn it over to a government bureaucracy. Detectorists find ways to keep their favorite artifacts close to their hearts. Detectorists hand over their artifacts to Denmark's 28 local archaeology museums—an astonishing number for a country one-third the size of New York State. It's up to local archaeologists such as Trier to designate sites of interest before they're destroyed by farming or construction and to identify and record the finds before they're passed on to the central Danefæ department at the National Museum. Trier says he has about 300 detectorists who regularly turn in finds to him. 'They can often tell even from a teeny sound the detector makes what kind of an object and how deep it is,' he notes. Some private detectorists have résumés that rival those of professional archaeologists. 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Many of the weapons seem to have been placed in support poles—whether as sacrificial offerings in the inauguration of a new temple or as a way of symbolically 'killing' the old one remains unclear. Fifteen temples 'felt very Indiana Jones,' Aagaard says. Looking back, Aagaard and Dreiøe laugh when they remember they considered taking up hunting or sailing as their joint hobby instead. The dig site I visited with Aagard, Dreiøe and Grundvad in March is in a field where grain is typically grown, just a stone's throw from a highway. On the horizon we could make out a suburban neighborhood, windmills—and a dolmen, a burial mound with large stones perched atop it, probably about 5,000 years old. The dolmen was already ancient by the time of the Vikings, Grundvad mused. The museum had rented a lime-green excavator for the occasion. 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But the archaeologist was more interested in a small, curved piece of bronze that Aagaard found: a fragment of a goblet or a pot the coins might have been buried in. The hope is that deep under the plow layer, there might be evidence of a settlement. Grundvad treats Dreiøe and Aagaard—who are, by trade, a sales manager and a psychologist, respectively—as colleagues. 'At first we wondered if they'd roll their eyes at us because archaeology is their job and our weekend hobby,' Aagaard says. 'But not Lars. He's one of the youngest and hippest local archaeologists.' Nearly every weekend during the detecting season, Aagaard and Dreiøe take their 'time machines' out in the field. They send snapshots of their discoveries to Grundvad for immediate identification. 'Not to sound arrogant about it, but we've gotten used to them bringing in extremely nice finds,' Grundvad said. In many ways, he credits Dreiøe, Aagaard and Nørgaard with putting his little museum on the map. 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With the breadth of objects that come across their desks, from flint-knapped stone tools and Bronze Age weapons to Viking jewelry, curators need an encyclopedic knowledge of Danish prehistory just to have a chance of knowing which book to reach for. Kirstine Pommergaard knows what style of brooch was popular in C.E. 300. She can tell whether a coin is a Roman solidus or a dirham of the ancient Islamic caliphates at a glance. 'You have to love items and the stories they can tell to be able to do what we do,' she says. Pommergaard is a curator of prehistoric archaeology and one of just three archaeologists in the country dedicated to identifying Danefæ full-time. As of 2025, there's a daunting backlog of more than 50,000 objects in a secret 'secure facility' awaiting evaluation. '[Each one is an] important piece of the puzzle, even if it's not made of gold or if we have 1,000 of them already,' she says. But what Pommergaard cherishes most are the items whose very existence reveals unforeseen connections. All the curators were dazzled when a detectorist turned in a solid gold ring set with a blood-red garnet. But Pommergaard, a self-professed craftsmanship nerd, became fixated on something many might have overlooked in the quest to figure out the origin of the ornament: the underside of the ring's setting. Four delicate curlicues that the goldsmith used to attach the shank to the head were a smoking gun for Pommergaard. This jewelry-making technique was exclusive to Frankish craftsmen living under the Merovingian dynasty, a royal dynasty that used marriage diplomacy to consolidate power across central Europe after the fall of the Roman Empire. Thumb rings with a similar construction have been found in the graves of high-status Merovingian women on the level of empresses and queens, Pommergaard says. Could the ring have been a spoil of war? The stone says otherwise. 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But the same can't be said of the budget for archaeologists to process the finds. Currently the average wait for an artifact to be processed by the Danefæ team is 'at least 2.5 years' once the object reaches their doors, according to Pommergaard, but that duration doesn't include the time the objects spend being evaluated at local museums, which don't receive dedicated funding for Danefæ. As local museums struggle to process the finds their detectorists turn in, they risk missing the opportunity to identify sites such as the Vaarst complex before they're lost to construction or the plow, Trier says. The long processing time also means some prolific detectorists have tens of thousands of kroner in rewards tied up in the system, sometimes for up to a decade. But archaeologists and hobbyists agree that detectorists aren't in it for the money. 'Hour for hour, we'd be better off picking up cans off the side of the road and turning them in for the recycling fee,' says Troels Taylor, a longtime detectorist based in Zealand. Nevertheless, 'we are grateful for our system where we get a little reward for the huge work and effort we do,' Taylor adds. Detectorists do want to know their finds are being examined and used for research, however. If not, they'd be happy to display them in their homes. It's a big ask to expect the finder of a pristine ancient treasure to turn it over to a government bureaucracy. Detectorists find ways to keep their favorite artifacts close to their hearts. Taylor, like many detectorists, has several tattooed on his body, including one image from a strap end he found of two stylized beasts that twist on his forearm. Other detectorists, such as the finder of the royal Emmerlev ring, hire metalsmiths and jewelers to make re-creations of their discoveries. The Danefæ program provides a tremendous return on investment from the perspective of the Danish government, Trier says. Private detectorists spend thousands of hours in the fields, and taxpayers pay them only when something extraordinary is uncovered. But simmering frustration with wait times risks upending the program. 'Our system is working really well, but it's only working because the detectorists feel heard—they feel that they are contributing and that we're actually taking them seriously,' Trier says. If processing times get any longer, however, he worries the program will stretch the detectorists' goodwill. 'The trust system only works as long as we archaeologists supply our part of the deal.' But many detectorists say that even if wait times ballooned, they doubt they'd ever be able to give up their hobby. 'As long as I can walk and dig holes,' Ginnerup says, 'I will continue with my metal detector.'