Northern Lights Seeds

Flushing Northern Lights Before Harvest

Flushing Northern Lights before harvest is like trying to rinse the soul out of something that’s already halfway to heaven. You’re not just washing the roots—you’re asking the plant to let go. And sometimes, it doesn’t want to. Can’t blame it. After weeks of feeding it like royalty, you suddenly cut the buffet and say, “Hey, clean yourself up.” It’s a weird relationship.

I usually start flushing around two weeks before chop day. Some folks say ten days is enough, but I’ve seen that extra time make a difference—buds come out smoother, less harsh, more... honest. Like they’re not hiding behind leftover salts or synthetic junk. Just pure plant. That’s the goal, right?

But it’s not a science experiment. It’s feel. You look at the trichomes—cloudy, maybe a few amber—and you just know. Or you don’t. Sometimes I’ve flushed too early and kicked myself later. Other times, I waited too long and the leaves started yellowing like old parchment. That’s the thing with Northern Lights—it’s forgiving, but not stupid. It’ll show you what it thinks of your timing.

Water only. No molasses, no secret sauce, no “organic flush boosters” from a bottle with a cartoon gorilla on it. Just water, pH’d if you’re feeling fancy. Let it run through until it pours out the bottom like a busted pipe—clear, not tea-colored. Do that every few days. Watch the runoff. Smell the soil. It changes. Gets cleaner. Lighter. Like the plant’s exhaling.

And yeah, the leaves will fade. That’s part of it. Don’t freak out when the fan leaves go pale or start curling like they’re trying to whisper something. They’re dying. That’s the point. You’re not saving them—you’re letting them go so the buds can shine. It’s kind of beautiful, in a morbid way.

I’ve had Northern Lights that tasted like pine and warm earth after a good flush. No chemical tang, no throat burn. Just smooth, mellow, almost nostalgic. Like smoking a memory. And if you’ve ever hit a joint and felt like you were sitting in a cabin in the woods in 1983, you know what I mean.

Anyway. Don’t overthink it. Flush with intention, not obsession. Watch the plant, not the calendar. And when it’s ready—really ready—you’ll know. Or you won’t. But that’s growing. That’s life. Messy, imperfect, and sometimes, just right.