Northern Lights from Different Brands
Some strains just hit different. Northern Lights is one of those. It’s old-school, like cassette tapes and ashtrays on the windowsill. You don’t smoke it—you sink into it. And depending on who grew it, that sink can feel like a warm bath or a slow, spiraling descent into the couch cushions where you forget your own name for a minute.
I’ve tried Northern Lights from at least five different brands. They all slap, but not the same way. One batch from Glass House Farms? Smooth, piney, kinda sweet. Like walking through a forest after rain, barefoot, stoned out of your mind. But then there’s the stuff from Pacific Stone—cheaper, harsher, more like a punch in the throat followed by a nap you didn’t plan on taking.
And then there's the boutique growers. You know the ones—small batch, hand-trimmed, probably named after someone’s dog. I picked up a jar from a local brand in Humboldt (can’t remember the name, the label was all watercolor mushrooms and cursive). That one? Holy hell. It tasted like spicy earth and nostalgia. I swear I time-traveled. Smoked it around 8 p.m., woke up at 3 a.m. on the floor with a half-eaten grilled cheese stuck to my chest. No regrets.
Thing is, Northern Lights isn’t just a strain—it’s a vibe. It’s the kind of high that doesn’t ask questions. It just wraps around you like a weighted blanket and says, “Shhh, we’re not doing anything today.” Some brands lean into that. Others mess it up, try to make it more “modern,” whatever that means. I had one from a flashy LA dispensary—looked great, smelled like lemon cleaner, but the high? Empty. Like drinking decaf coffee. What’s the point?
Also—this needs to be said—some of these companies are straight-up lying. I’ve had “Northern Lights” that felt more like Sour Diesel in disguise. Racy, jittery, no chill. If I wanted to clean my kitchen at 2 a.m., I’d do Adderall. Don’t slap a legendary name on some random hybrid and expect me not to notice. I’ve been around. I know what this strain is supposed to feel like. It’s supposed to feel like sinking into warm sand while the sky turns purple.
Best one I ever had? From a grower in Oregon, sold in a plain-ass jar with a sticker that just said “NL #5.” No branding, no bullshit. Just pure, sticky, resin-heavy nugs that smelled like a pinecone had a baby with a skunk. I lit it up, took two hits, and forgot what I was talking about mid-sentence. That’s the good stuff. That’s Northern Lights.
Anyway. If you’re chasing that classic indica high—body melt, brain fog, zero ambition—Northern Lights is still the blueprint. Just don’t trust every jar that says it on the label. Some of these brands are selling shadows. Find the real ones. You’ll know when you hit it. Your legs go numb and suddenly, everything’s fine.