The Range Rider
107 NW 1st St
Enterprise, Oregon, OR 97828
(541) 426-2337
Hours:
Now open for TAKE OUT service and INSIDE DINING.
11am-10pm Monday – Saturday
(Kitchen closes at 9pm)
CLOSED Sunday
Charming cowboy watering hole with vintage appeal set in the beautiful Wallowa mountains. Treat yourself to great food, live music, craft cocktails and local beer.
NOW with ONLINE ORDERING!
If you’re not familiar with our delicious array of culinary offerings, have a look at our menu!
Your meal is just a couple of clicks away!
Check our Facebook page for our weekly specials!
It’s twilight in Wallowa County.
The last dusty rays of alpenglow are fading from the rimrock on Ruby Peak.
Your horse is tired, your saddle is dusty, and last night the packrats got hold of your favorite hackamore.
You’ve just unloaded the last of your gear from your rankest mule, and the last of the warm whiskey from your saddlebag flask.
You’re thirsty,
and in the distance, out past the hood ornament of the 1986 flatbed F250
you see a neon sign, half lit, in a scene you know too damned well:
That three year old Hereford steer some flatlander missed last roundup on one end of a rope and that half-green, all bronc, Sorrel horse on the other, and you stuck somewhere between a mountain and a pickle.
The door swings open, the cook smiles, your boots kick up dust from the hardwood, and in the corner a piano plays a sad cowboy song, almost in tune.
And the bartender sets up yr usual.
and you’ve made it the end of another long ride.
You’ve made it to The Range Rider.
The last dusty rays of alpenglow are fading from the rimrock on Ruby Peak.
Your horse is tired, your saddle is dusty, and last night the packrats got hold of your favorite hackamore.
You’ve just unloaded the last of your gear from your rankest mule, and the last of the warm whiskey from your saddlebag flask.
You’re thirsty,
and in the distance, out past the hood ornament of the 1986 flatbed F250
you see a neon sign, half lit, in a scene you know too damned well:
That three year old Hereford steer some flatlander missed last roundup on one end of a rope and that half-green, all bronc, Sorrel horse on the other, and you stuck somewhere between a mountain and a pickle.
The door swings open, the cook smiles, your boots kick up dust from the hardwood, and in the corner a piano plays a sad cowboy song, almost in tune.
And the bartender sets up yr usual.
and you’ve made it the end of another long ride.
You’ve made it to The Range Rider.