3 MINS AGO: Digger Manes From Moonshiners Is Breaking The News

He’s the man who tamed wild Appalachian stills, but Digger Manes has been hiding an unbelievable secret from his fans. His steady hands and calm focus are legendary. But while the cameras rolled, the ‘Moonshiners’ icon was privately diagnosed with a serious, life-altering illness. The ‘breaking news’ isn’t a new batch of shine; it’s the stunning truth about his health. His entire world has been turned upside down. This story of grit and grace is unbelievable. Find out exactly what he’s fighting and how he’s handling it.

For millions of viewers, Eric “Digger” Manes is the quiet cornerstone of the hit Discovery Channel show, Moonshiners. He is a man who seems to belong to a different era, a craftsman whose hands understand the secret language of copper, fire, and corn. His calm demeanor and dry, mountain-wit paint the picture of an unbreakable Appalachian spirit, a master of a craft that thrives in the shadows. But for all his public persona, a private, harrowing battle has been raging just beneath the surface—news that has quietly emerged, shocking fans and revealing a profound vulnerability behind the resilient figure.

The man who built a life on precision and patience is facing a fight that requires all of that and more: a fight for his own life.

To understand the man, you have to understand the mountains that made him. Born on February 20, 1964, in Newport, Tennessee, Digger Manes was raised in the misty foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. His was a world where work and respect were one and the same, passed down not in classrooms but through rough hands and quiet observation. His early life was defined by a stark, almost poetic duality. On one hand, there was his father, Charlie Manes, who ran the Brown Funeral Home.

While most kids would flee such a place, Digger saw it as an education. Sweeping floors and polishing coffins, he watched his father manage profound sadness with a steady, respectful calm. He eventually learned the precise, scientific work of preparing bodies for burial. It was a job that demanded a steady heart and steadier hands, teaching him a deep-seated discipline and an appreciation for order. The solemn chill of the funeral parlor taught him about the quiet dignity of an end.

On the other hand, the woods were calling. In the hollows and hills surrounding Newport, another, more ancient craft was being practiced under the cover of night. Digger was mesmerized by the men who gathered around the faint, warm glow of copper stills, a secret world of fire, patience, and transformation. He watched, hypnotized, as they turned simple corn into something clear, strong, and alive. These men weren’t rich, but they were free, answering to no one but the land itself. He saw them not as outlaws, but as skilled artisans bound by a code of mutual support.

This duality—the solemn, precise world of the funeral home and the wild, fiery freedom of the still—shaped the man he would become. He wasn’t drawn to the danger; he was drawn to the craft. He was looking for mastery, and while his father’s work taught him how to handle the still of death, the woods were calling him to learn how to handle the fire of life.

That call led him to a man who would become a legend, and who would, in turn, make Digger his apprentice. Before the cameras and the fame, there was Marvin “Popcorn” Sutton.

Popcorn was a celebrity in his own right, a short, sharp-tongued force of nature from Maggie Valley, North Carolina, known across Appalachia for his rebellious spirit and his unmatched skill. He had spent a lifetime perfecting recipes passed down through generations and, just as importantly, evading the law. Meeting him wasn’t luck; it was an audition. Popcorn could spot a phony from a mile away, but in Digger, he saw a quiet, patient observer. He saw respect.

In a world built on secrets, Popcorn opened the door. He taught Digger everything: how to read the still like a heartbeat, how to maintain a perfect temperature against the night wind, how to know a run was right without a single gauge. More than technique, he passed down a philosophy, a creed summed up in a simple phrase: “Don’t make it for greed, make it for pride.”

This was the core of the craft. It wasn’t about quick cash; it was about tradition, care, and the sacred bond between a craftsman and his work. The hard labor of cutting wood, hauling corn, and standing watch over hot flames was, to Digger, a holy act. Popcorn wasn’t just breaking the law; he was preserving a culture, an art form born from farmers trying to survive harsh winters. Digger absorbed this truth and carried it with him. But this world of legends is fragile. After decades of being a ghost, the law finally caught up with Popcorn Sutton. His death left the mountains quieter, the fires less bright. For Digger, it was a profound loss, but it wasn’t an end. It was a call to action. He made a silent promise that the craft would not die with his mentor. He would keep the stills running, not for fame, but for the pride Popcorn had instilled in him.

For nearly 40 years, Digger Manes honored that promise in the quiet obscurity of the Tennessee hills. Fame was never the goal. In his world, attention was dangerous. The craft was meant to be secret. Then, fate intervened in the form of his longtime friend, Mark Ramsay. Mark had joined the third season of Moonshiners, a radical new reality show that promised to pull back the curtain on their hidden world.

When Mark asked Digger to join him, the answer was a natural no. To Digger, putting their life on national television felt like breaking a “holy rule.” But Mark was persistent, arguing that if they didn’t tell their own story, someone else would—and they would get it wrong. With great reluctance, Digger stepped out of the shadows and in front of the cameras.

The result was electric. In a sea of forced reality-TV drama, Digger was undeniably real. His authentic mountain drawl, his dry humor, and his profound, quiet knowledge of the craft captivated audiences. His partnership with Mark became the heart of the show—a story of brotherhood, trust, and a shared pride in their work. The show’s success was immense, leading to a legal, celebrated partnership with Sugarlands Distilling Company in Gatlinburg. The man who once hid his work from the law was now putting his name on bottles praised around the world.

But the sun casts a long shadow. By the 13th season of the show, loyal fans began to notice a change. The unbreakable Digger Manes seemed tired. He was moving more slowly. Rumors spread across the internet, but the truth remained private for months.

Then, in a quiet moment captured on camera, the “breaking news” was finally revealed. Digger turned to his friend, Mark Ramsay, and told him the truth. He had been diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL), a cancer of the blood and bone marrow. His voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, the voice of a man who had spent a lifetime in funeral homes and understood mortality. “It wasn’t the end,” he told Mark, “but it ain’t fun either.”

The quiet that followed that revelation was more powerful than any television drama. For fans, it was a hammer blow. CLL is a slow-growing disease, a long-term fight that involves weakening the immune system and a “watch and wait” strategy of monitoring and targeted treatments. The man of fire was now fighting a quiet war inside his own body.

What happened next was a testament to the family, both on-screen and off. The Discovery Channel production team chose honor over exploitation. There was no sensationalism. They quietly adjusted his schedule to allow for rest. His co-stars—Steven Ray Tickle, Josh Owens, and Tim Smith—rallied around him, not as a patient, but as a brother.

The illness did not stop Digger’s life; it simply clarified its value. He continued to work, to tinker with stills, to laugh with Mark. The fire still burned, just a little slower, a little steadier. He met his diagnosis not with resistance, but with a profound acceptance. He wouldn’t let his sickness become a tragedy; he used it to show that a man could possess both grit and grace.

As he tended to his copper stills, knowing a different kind of slow burn was happening inside him, Digger applied the same patience he had learned from Popcorn Sutton. Some things cannot be rushed or forced. His story was no longer just about moonshine; it became a symbol of strength, a lesson that even the toughest mountain men can be vulnerable, and that true strength isn’t about hiding pain, but facing it head-on.

The spirit of Digger Manes is the spirit of moonshining itself. It’s a story of survival, of taking what you have and turning it into something that can get you through the winter. It’s an art form that has evolved from an act of tax rebellion to a cherished piece of cultural heritage. Digger Manes has become the living bridge between that secret past and the celebrated present. He is a craftsman, a reluctant star, and now, a survivor. The cameras may catch his fight, but what viewers see is not sickness. They see the pure, unadulterated glow of survival, still burning bright in the firelight.