In Japan’s far north, Hokkaido stretches across mountains, forests, and endless snow. For months each year, the landscape turns white, and travel slows to a crawl. This vast and beautiful region (known for dairy farms, fishing towns, and open space) is also one of the most sparsely populated parts of the country.

For people living here, health care access depends not only on medicine, but on geography, infrastructure, and weather. It’s not uncommon for patients to miss appointments or for doctors to travel hours between towns when snowstorms close highways and flights.

In many ways, Hokkaido mirrors parts of rural America: Alaska’s tundra villages, the Great Plains, or the agricultural Midwest. These regions share the same challenges: distance, cold, workforce shortages, and aging populations. But Japan’s health system offers a contrasting model for how a society can confront these realities with equity at its center.

Japan’s universal health coverage guarantees every citizen access to care. That changes everything. In Hokkaido, patients may struggle with distance, but they rarely face financial barriers. Insurance covers hospital visits, imaging, and medications with modest co-pays. The result is a landscape where access is determined by location, not affordability, a crucial distinction from the U.S.

Still, the logistical challenges are enormous. Many small towns rely on one or two physicians, often working long hours with limited backup. When patients need specialized care (an oncologist, a cardiologist, or an emergency surgeon) they may travel hours to reach a city like Sapporo or Asahikawa. Air ambulances and “Doctor-Heli” helicopters bridge some of that distance, but heavy snowfall can ground even those.

And like many rural areas worldwide, Hokkaido faces demographic headwinds. The population is aging rapidly. Younger workers move south to cities, leaving behind elderly residents who require chronic disease management and long-term care. Small hospitals and clinics face financial pressure as patient volumes decline, echoing the rural hospital crisis seen across parts of the U.S. Midwest.

What keeps the system functioning in Hokkaido is a combination of coordination and innovation. Agricultural cooperatives operate community hospitals that anchor regional care. University medical centers have built telemedicine networks that link local physicians to urban specialists through cloud systems and video consultation. A doctor in a snowbound town can review cases with a cardiologist in Sapporo in real time.

The Japanese government also supports programs that place newly-trained physicians in rural regions for several years, ensuring that even small communities have access to consistent care. It’s not a perfect system (turnover remains high) but it represents a deliberate national effort to share medical resources fairly.

Contrast this with the U.S., where rural health care remains fragmented. Financial barriers, insurance gaps, and hospital closures often compound the same geographic and weather-related problems. Many rural counties in the U.S. now lack one practicing physician. Patients delay care not just because the hospital is far away, but because the bill might be insurmountable.

Both Hokkaido and rural America reveal the same truth: geography is destiny, unless policy intervenes. Japan’s model demonstrates what can happen when health care is treated as a right, and when national coordination supports even the most remote communities.

As a physician, I find Hokkaido’s example instructive. It shows that universal coverage alone isn’t enough; it must be paired with strong infrastructure, telemedicine, and community partnerships. It also shows that rural health care isn’t just about hospitals; it’s about transportation, broadband access, and trust.

Rural health challenges won’t disappear in either country. Snowstorms will still close roads; populations will still age; and doctors will still choose cities. But Japan’s experience proves that a system can be built to ensure that no community is entirely left behind.

For both Japan and the U.S., the question is ultimately one of values: whether we view health care access as a shared responsibility, or as a matter of individual circumstance. Hokkaido’s lesson is simple but profound: Distance may shape the landscape, but it shouldn’t define who gets care.

Vikram Madireddy is a neurologist. Hana Asami and Taiga Nakayama are medical students in Japan.